Fallen
by LitRaptor42
Summary: A mishmash of short stories, mostly pairings, based on lyrics from Evanescence. Final chapter: Hazakura Inner Temple, Godot meets Pearl. Thanks for the hits and reviews!
1. Going Under

This is sort of an ongoing self-challenge: particular characters narrating short fics that are loosely based off the lyrics of Evanescence songs. All lyrics from the songs on the album _Fallen_ belong to Evanescence and their affiliates. All the Ace Attorney stuff belongs to those awesome people at Capcom/Nintendo. *thumbs up*

Also, please correct me if I make any background errors... you know how OCD I am, but trolling the AA wiki and Court-Records is _occasionally_ just not enough.

(Yet another reason why I'll NEVER finish writing any of my Fire Emblem stories. *sigh*)

* * *

~~11.1 Going Under~~

* * *

I stared at her, feeling as if I would start shaking any moment. Though, to be perfectly honest, I probably couldn't have: what she'd just said was so horrifying that most of my body was paralyzed. All I could do was gulp. How could one person be so weak?

Dahlia narrowed her eyes, her gaze still shrewdly fixed on my face, those mild brown eyes unduly frightening. "Iris. Did you hear me?"

Somehow I found the strength to nod, very slowly. To hide my trembling lips, I put a hand over my mouth: that also gave me a small excuse not to answer just yet. Just when I thought I'd hit rock bottom, that she couldn't take any more away from me…

"Then answer me." Her voice was light, as usual, and she played with her hair casually. The cool spring air of a city night swirled around us, and I couldn't believe that she wasn't cold, in that ridiculous pink satin fluff of a dress. "Iris. _Will you do it_?"

I took a deep breath, lowering my hand. I looked out my dormitory window briefly for inspiration, but there was nothing. The gigantic mall across the town glowed softly with sodium lights, reminding me of Hazakura's Lesser Magatama, as it always did, but unfortunately to me it was less inspiring than insipid. As much as I loved and missed Sister Bikini, it was times like these that I wished my training at Hazakura had given me less insight and more backbone. It wasn't like I was even a good spirit medium.

Finally, I couldn't endure her chilly gaze any longer, and stammered, "But… but Dahlia, I've been asking for months. I've done all I could… I don't even know what's real and what's not anymore." That part was a lie. I was in love, but I'd made a firm resolution to die before ever telling her that. Not that I didn't feel like I was dying inside now. "Please don't make me do it."

"I have to get that necklace back!" she hissed suddenly, moving towards me so quickly that I couldn't even dart back. Her hand, as small and delicate as my own, nevertheless grabbed my arm with such strength that I squeaked in pain. "Do you have _any_ idea how important it is to me?"

"No!" I said helplessly. "Dollie, you never told me… every time I ask _why_ it's important, it's like you don't even hear me."

She must have told me a hundred times or more that if I couldn't get the necklace back, at least tell Phoenix to shut up about it. But oh, I just couldn't. Something in my heart warmed and swirled every time he proudly displayed the ugly little thing to a friend or classmate: I knew it had been Dahlia who gave it to him... but I _was_ Dahlia, at least the way he saw it. I'd dyed my hair, worn her clothing, gone to her classes and recited her poetry. And the thought of someone being so madly in love with me…

I'd never been able to figure out, either, why my sister wanted the necklace back so badly. Seeing that I was incapable of answering yet, she sat back and fumed—adorably, of course. I sagged a little, thinking frantically. If she wanted it for a bad reason, I might be able to summon a "no"… but if not I would just drown in my futile arguments again. What possible explanation could there be for wanting back such a hideous little piece of jewelry, anyway?

Something occurred to me faintly, and I asked, "Does the necklace… does it have anything to do with… with you leaving Ivy University for awhile? Are people looking for it?" Another thought popped into my head, and I dared to further add, "Did you steal the necklace?"

It was the wrong thing to say. I instinctively flinched as she flew at me, screaming. "No! _No!_ Don't ever think that I stole it, Iris, that necklace is _mine_! And if you can't get that stupid fool to give it back I'll just kill him!"

She'd slapped me in the face, and without thinking I'd curled into a ball, her hands still raining blows on my shoulders. I wrapped my arms around myself: I'd cried hundreds of thousands of tears since she'd made me start living her life, and now it seemed like sometimes they just wouldn't come. _I'm at Feenie's apartment… we're sitting and watching a movie… that's right, his arms are around me…_

"You're so pathetic!" I finally heard, as the daze started to fade. "What's wrong with you? Why can't you just do as I say, like you always used to? What's changed?"

With the sudden clarity that occasionally and miraculously descended upon me in these kinds of situations, I became conscious of the fact that she was going to figure it out in a minute. That I couldn't obey her tormenting commands because I was really in love. "I…I just c-can't…" I stuttered, trying to find words, any words, anything that would distract her from seeing the truth. "Dollie… all these things I've done for you… I just can't face leaving this life yet." There. That was better than nothing: let her think I didn't want to hurt Phoenix because it would be hurting _me_. "I like it here at Ivy University, please don't make me leave."

She snorted, standing over me. I sniffled and sat up on the bed some. "Please don't make me leave your life, oh, Dollie, I love being youuuu…" Her voice, a mockingly shrill version of mine, hurt almost worse than anything yet. It was unbearable only because it was true, I realized. Even leaving out Phoenix, I _did_ love her life, the normality and innocuous variation of it, talking about literature with the other students and learning about histories that _didn't_ involve chanting ancient prayers in the freezing cold.

Inside of me, something hardened as it usually didn't, and I became calm again, wiping my tears. I couldn't do what she asked, after all. I couldn't break up with Phoenix and leave her life, go back to Hazakura without a word of explanation: I would rather just die right now. "Dollie, please don't scream at me: or rather, you can scream at me all you want, but I won't do it. Please, just give me more time with Feenie and I promise I'll get the necklace back for you."

She didn't answer for a moment, her eyes locked on mine, and after a short silence I understood my horrifying mistake. "_Feenie_?" Dahlia asked, incredulously. Her face was wavering somewhere between amusement and disgust. "Oh, Iris… don't tell me you actually _love_ him." The disgust won out, and she made a face.

What could I do? Panic was quickly setting in. Lifting my chin, I asserted as firmly as I could, "N-no, I just… I just got used to calling him that. Um…" Inspiration struck and I added, "All the other girls give their boyfriends nicknames, you know." It was sort of true, after all: they did, but it wasn't why I'd done it.

Fortunately, Dahlia was one of those people who took things lightly. She truly didn't care about my feelings for Phoenix, and probably didn't even consider the fact that he might be a human being. He was a tool whose usefulness had ended. She flipped a hand. "Whatever. I guess. Okay, I'll give you some more time. But Iris, they're bearing down hard, the people who want this necklace." Pausing for a moment, she let me get good and confused about that, then continued, "They're thieves. They think I was mean to that kid, giving him a necklace and then wanting it back, so they want me to give it up altogether." Her brows drew together, and she finished darkly, "But it's _mine_."

I couldn't argue with her anymore: the year was pulling on towards finals week, and in all honesty I hadn't slept very well, studying and helping others with their work. Tiredly, I said, "Thank you, Dahlia. I promise… I _promise_ I'll get it back from him." The thought completely sickened me, and I wondered if I would have to eventually just steal it when he was sleeping. Every day was a torment already, deceiving Phoenix into thinking I was someone else: this would only make it more torturous.

* * *

When she finally left, on the train back to Valerie's apartment, I sat for awhile, unable to even think about my haiku analysis due the next day, or even about helping Phoenix studying for the law school admission test. It felt like I was falling down a rabbit hole: except instead of expecting wacky adventures when I landed, I would probably just die when I hit bottom.

There had to be a way to break out of this torture. Without thinking much, I dressed warmly and followed my feet across campus. I didn't have a key to Phoenix's studio apartment—what good girl would go into her beloved's apartment without asking first, anyway?—but at when I knocked lightly, the door swung open.

I went in: the time had never occurred to me, and the digital lights blinking midnight on the microwave startled me. A faint buzzing noise led me through the tiny hall, to the space that was both his office, bedroom, and living room. He was asleep on the couch, snoring atop the admissions test book; tears pricked my eyes.

I didn't want to wake him up. Being in the apartment was enough. Dahlia always filled me with a choking, drowning sensation: whenever I was with Phoenix, it was always the opposite, a sensation of utter freedom, of flying while holding hands with a kindred spirit. I took a deep breath and leaned down to kiss his forehead. It might just be possible that I could save myself and my love from this. I had to… no one else could, after all.


	2. Bring Me To Life

This was initially about six times as long… it jumped around, from the Christmas Eve incident at Gourd Lake all the way to the end of the trial, and then my brain exploded so I had to cut some. *shrugs* Once I got into narrating for Edgeworth, I guess it was too much fun. Anyway, here it is.

* * *

~~11.2 Bring Me To Life~~

* * *

He wasn't really sure what to expect when Wright grabbed his arm and hustled him aside. His eyes still watering from the bright flash and his senses still somewhat dazed from the rapid end to the trial—and the enormous revelations that had come with it—he didn't immediately hear what the other man was trying to tell him.

"Come again?" he said, feeling irrationally irritable, but immediately guilty.

Wright took away his hand, if a bit slowly. "Well…" The others were still babbling, hugging one another and gesticulating wildly. At points confetti randomly rained down from somewhere, and everyone laughed incessantly. "It's just that…"

Now that he could actually be heard, it seemed to make him hesitant. Edgeworth wanted to smack him, yell "Spit it out!" But somehow that wouldn't even have been appropriate at a time when Wright _hadn't_ just saved his life. Finally he said, "Is this something about the trial?"

Obviously somewhat relieved, Wright managed to shrug and nod at the same time, looking sheepish as usual. "Yeah. Sort of. I just wanted to… I guess apologize."

Edgeworth gaped at him for a moment. "For _what_?" It occurred to him that after the long, self-revelatory conversation they'd just had in front of a near-stranger and Larry, this had to be something really good, for Wright to pull him aside like this.

He could barely speak when Wright said, "About von Karma. Sorry." It was almost like a punch to the midsection. That horrible scream flashed through his mind again, the sensation of suffocating, his father's face drawn in fear… He blinked, feeling as if he really might faint at any moment. It hadn't really hit him yet, he supposed. Vaguely he was able to imagine that his mentor… the man who'd taken him in fifteen years ago, who'd raised him, given him a sister, had taught him everything he knew… that von Karma had only done it to avenge himself on Edgeworth's father for some stupid penalty in court. It would probably leave him in tears in the middle of the night sooner or later, but for right now there was a faint glaze over everything.

Wright was still talking, hardly making sense. "I just know that… that when Mia died, it was the worst thing I could have imagined. Worse than when I was accused of murder one time. I could hardly accept that she was gone. So I guess what I'm trying to say is that even if I don't _really_ know how you feel, I'm sorry for having… you know. Caused it."

The poor, stupid, well-meaning idiot: he was trying to apologize for catching the real killer, because it made his friend feel awful. Edgeworth was sorely tempted to laugh, and had he not been so close to hysteria as it was, he might have. But that wouldn't have been fair to Wright, either.

It further occurred to him that the other man was having a fair amount of success guessing his emotions. For someone who sometimes acted and appeared so clueless, Wright had amazing insight. Edgeworth was almost startled to find that… could it be? yes, he was actually relieved, though perhaps he would never tell that to the other man. Finally, someone who could actually understand…

Taking a deep breath, he managed to shove down the mental images and speak quite calmly, though each one was trying to force itself up to make him ill. "Wright, you don't have to apologize." He wanted to say that Mia Fey's death hadn't been in any way like the betrayal of his mentor… but he knew it was. He'd worshipped von Karma, had loved him in a different way than his father, but being so close with Franziska had made it somewhat easier to forget that he hadn't always been a part of their family. He'd never doubted that he wanted to be just like von Karma… until someone came along who proved him utterly mistaken.

Wright was finally looking up at him now, and their eyes locked as he continued. "I appreciate your concern, but you were only doing your duty." Damn! Why was this coming out so stilted and formal? He cleared his throat and tried again. "That is to say, I'm more grateful to you than words can express… the painful truth is always better than a soothing lie."

That wasn't what he'd meant to say, either. But Wright seemed to understand, and it was better than nothing. The other man suddenly grasped his hand: it was like an electric thrill. "Okay. Edgeworth, just please… please say you'll be all right. Even if you don't want to ask for help, you'll know you could anyway, right?"

His immediate reaction should have been to try and extricate himself from Wright's grasp: there were half a dozen other people nearby, and the cold little High Prosecutor's voice inside him was murmuring that he might later regret this. But somehow, Edgeworth just didn't care. Something in him was rising, a warm and extremely vulnerable wish to repay someone who'd gone all out, to coin the phrase. His blood was pounding in a way it never had, and for the first time in years, he knew for a fact that someone cared what happened to him: not just physically or in terms of a career, but _emotionally_. Wright truly seemed to invest himself in whether Edgeworth would recover, and just that was enough to unfreeze his lips, allow him to unleash some of his real spirit.

"I'll be all right," was all he could think to say, but he knew that for once it didn't sound either cold or arrogant. Wright's eyes were still fixed in his own, and he could feel that the other man understood. The future was going to be different, now that he'd been unfrozen, brought back to life.

A little hand startled them both by wrapping itself around Wright's chest. Their hands flew apart. "Well! Let's go!" Maya Fey exclaimed, dark eyes beaming at them both. "You still want to, right, Mr. Edgeworth?"

"Of course," he answered automatically, then repeated it louder, more assuredly. "Yes, of course. Let's go." Before someone started berating him with an exclamation mark and "pal" dropped between every sentence, that was.

As they rejoined the others, Edgeworth couldn't help but glance over at Wright, whose attention was now being wholly claimed by his assistant and surrogate younger sister. The grin on his face seemed genuine, and Edgeworth found himself ever so slightly envious for a moment. He was about to brush the feeling away… when he thought better of it. Perhaps letting himself go… having petty emotions for once… would be good for him.


	3. Everybody's Fool

And holy crap I didn't really think about the significance of the word "fool" to a Franziska piece until I'd finished the story and inserted the title. (What would she say about me? Hehe.) …Anyway. Oi, do I idolize her.

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~~11.3 Everybody's Fool~~

* * *

It took him almost twenty minutes to figure out which concourse he was going to. Of all the days for seven planes to be going to Berlin! Edgeworth found himself almost huffing as he took the escalator steps two at a time. Thank God for his status as a prosecutor… they never would have gotten him through security so quickly otherwise.

Where was she? he wondered, irritably eyeing all the travellers, vainly searching for her oddly-colored hair. Some were looking at him strangely: of course, he wasn't even carrying a briefcase, much less carry-on luggage or other travel gear. Suddenly his hand brushed against his pocket, and he realized that Franziska's whip was protruding from it: perhaps that explained the blank stares and excited eyeballing from children. There was no time to think about blushing or trying to recoil it, though, and he grimly strode onwards.

There! Finally he spotted her, lounging ever so gracefully apart from the other travellers. Or at least it appeared that she was lounging gracefully: anyone else would have taken that serene expression for daydreaming, or at the least self-reflection. Edgeworth knew better. Franziska's perpetual expressions were either arrogance or anger, and if it wasn't one of those two she was on the verge of tears.

"Franziska," he said quietly, and she looked up, startled. "Are you planning on running away?" It was probably a stupid thing to say, but then again he had her whip, and it had been a long time since she'd otherwise assaulted him. Especially in public.

"Shut up, Miles Edgeworth," she snapped, glaring and making no move to stand. "And go away."

He sighed. This was going to be harder than he'd thought. But he didn't feel like confronting her directly: this would be on her terms.

At last, she demanded, "How did you find me?"

Edgeworth shrugged. "This—" he pulled the tracking device from his coat pocket "—told me that Detective Gumshoe's coat was heading to the airport. And I couldn't help but assume you were heading home."

She snorted. He noticed her very slyly looking around, and added lightly, "Would you like to make this conversation more private, Franziska?"

Another glare, but this one more subdued. Having come to terms with the fact that he needed to speak to her, obviously Franziska had likewise accepted that he wouldn't leave until he had, either. Elegantly she uncrossed her ankles and rose from the seat, for all the world making it look as if it was her idea, and followed him to an uninhabited smoking room.

"Speaking of the detective," Edgeworth continued, as soon as she had reseated herself, "he mentioned that he'd found _four_ pieces of evidence at de Killer's house. One was still in his coat pocket."

Franziska _tsk_ed and said nothing, still not looking at him. Evidently the thought of Gumshoe's evidence was ridiculously unimportant given her current mental state.

"Franziska," he said gently. "What are you going to do now?" It had been years since he'd used such a tone with her, and as he'd expected, it rubbed her exactly the wrong way.

"What do you care?" she yelled. "It's none of your business!" She put one gloved hand to her mouth, turning her face away. But it wasn't enough to hide the tears. "You… you just don't understand. You _can't_ understand!"

Edgeworth didn't speak during the ensuing silence. He knew what this was about, and had felt precisely the same way… after his own trial more than a year before. It was the reason he'd left the country. But Franziska had to figure it out on her own, and come to terms with it in the same way he did. "I'm Manfred von Karma's daughter," she continued, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "Everyone expects me to be perfect, this manifestation of his genius! Bow down before the Perfect Prosecutorial Prodigy, an icon of the courtroom." She turned back to him, for once unashamed of her tears, eyes red-rimmed. "I'm not a genius. I never have been."

He wanted desperately to say something, to correct her. Of course she was a genius. Not in the way she meant it, of course: her win record was horrible in this country, if perfect at home, and she'd been made to look a fool by the most happy-go-lucky defense attorney in the business. But she'd passed him up long ago as an efficient prosecutor, even if it was at the expense of their relationship. Genius, he reflected unhappily, was really in the eye of the beholder.

"I'm quitting," she said at last, firmly. "I'm not going to be a prosecutor anymore."

It was the same thing he'd thought a year ago, except he hadn't had anyone to help him. She wasn't nearly as alone as she'd like to think, and the childish self-pity of it made him angry. "Franziska, you idiot," he said. "Why in God's name would you say that?"

"I've thrown away my whip," she said stubbornly, arms crossed and feet planted. For all the world she looked about fifteen, and Edgeworth had to remind himself for a moment that she really wasn't much more than a child. "I don't want to beat people anymore."

Talk about a twofold meaning, Edgeworth thought irritably. He pulled the whip out of his pocket and offered it to her, feeling rather ungraceful. "Yes, well… Wright gave me this to hold onto for you, in any case." He let the emphasis sink in—yes, it was Wright, your sworn rival—and added, "Being a prosecutor has nothing to do with winning, losing, personal gains, or even your own pride, Franziska. I certainly hope you've learned something about what you should be striking down with that whip."

Suddenly he realized she was crying again, and this time hard enough to render her speechless. It was times like this when he was jealous, immensely and uncontrollably jealous, of Wright. If he were Wright, and this had been Maya, he could have simply slid over next to her and put an arm around her delicate shoulders, blithely and unselfishly offering simply comfort. But even holding Franziska's whip, he knew he'd lose an eye or another important body part if he were to try hugging her.

As if reading his mind, she suddenly reached out and snatched the whip from him, eyes fierce and filled with hate. "You've always been the same!" she cried out passionately. "Leaving me behind, doing everything first, and making me feel like a fool when I finally catch up!"

This would probably have been a bad time to point out that he was seven years older than her, and Edgeworth just let her continue. "I can't just… just throw away myself!" she said, the words almost a sob. "I know my whole life has been a lie now, that everything I am… everything I ever have been was just… it was just Papa. I've been pretending to be perfect and flawless, some woman that I'm not, just because of him."

She buried her face in her hands. "You could have fooled me," Edgeworth said, suddenly unable to keep from speaking. "Franziska, you might have relied on him for physical presence, but your inner strength has nothing to do with him." It was with the utmost restraint that he kept from laughing as he added, "Though I'm sure it certainly helped you get away with whipping so many influential figures."

The whole world of Manfred von Karma was a lie, and he wished she could see that as clearly as her own failure. Bullying other people… ignoring those who chose to see your real identity… pretending that there were no obstacles in your path… Mentally, he shook himself. "But you can assert yourself. You saw Adrian do it in court."

_That_ touched a nerve, all right. Her head came up, eyes just barely meeting his before ducking once more under her beautiful lashes. Yes, she'd felt something for Adrian. He hadn't been surprised. "She managed to shake off her dependence and assert herself. You can do the same thing, you know." _Just like I did_, he was half a second from adding. _You can take off your mask and reveal whatever genius you have within._

But saying that would have only made her more upset. So he finished, "Just know that if you're done being a prosecutor…" he stood, looking down on her. "This is the last time you'll see me, Franziska von Karma."

She suddenly leapt out of her seat, stretched to her full height of five feet three inches, and hissed in his face. She was completely terrifying when risen in anger, and Edgeworth suddenly understood what Wright had said about her grinding men under her heel. "I will not live in your shadow forever, Miles Edgeworth. Yours or anyone else's!"

Regaining some semblance of control, she twined her fingers in the whip, pulling it tight and lifting her chin. Edgeworth was simultaneously awed and irked. "I am who I am," she continued proudly, "and the next time you and I meet… it's war, Miles Edgeworth!"

And with that, she stalked from the room, tears still tracking down her lovely little face and eyes still red. He was almost tempted (almost) to chase after her and resolve it… but as he'd decided before, this was going to be on her terms. Besides… he'd just convinced her to continue prosecuting, hadn't he?

Edgeworth sighed and pulled his coat collar up a notch higher, then left the smoking room. He risked a glance back at her: she'd dug into her luggage and was pulling out some kind of photograph or card, looking at it with confused fascination. That must have been the fourth piece of evidence. He was curious as to what it was, but sooner or later she would give it to Gumshoe or Wright… and he'd hear about it, whether he wanted to or not.

* * *

The concourse seemed terribly drab and grey as he slowly paced through it: even more so than on his way in. He would himself be returning to Europe before long… probably not to the same place as Franziska, though.

The only hope, the only prayer, running through his head at the moment was that she would come through it better than he had. Romantic distraction and a lot of self-reflection had been his saviors: hopefully the thought of Adrian would buoy Franziska somewhat as she took time in front of a mirror.

He knew what time her flight was taking off, and walked slowly to the parking lot. Once inside his car, he sat for awhile, and watched her plane take off, streaking north before banking into its eastern flight pattern.

Franziska was right: she was who she was. The paradox was changing without change, washing off Manfred von Karma's lies without destroying herself. Edgeworth sighed as he started his car, feeling the beginning of a headache coming on, and pulled out of the parking garage. In the end, no matter what Franziska decided, she would ultimately fool everyone: she had her whip back now, and that would be enough.


	4. My Immortal

God this is so DEPRESSING. Arrrrgh, least favorite lyrics on the album.

* * *

~~ 11.4 My Immortal ~~

* * *

Maya knew, somewhat tiredly, that her sister was considered by most nowadays to be the ultimate source of wisdom. But then again, could they be blamed? Mia was, after all, a spirit from beyond: presumably she had the answers to all of life's great questions, could solve eternal riddles and provide guidance for those who needed it. Besides that, the more pragmatic souls among them (such as Mr. Edgeworth) proclaimed matter-of-factly that Mia had been one of the premier defense attorneys of her era. Maya knew that Mia didn't usually feel that way herself: after all, she'd done her fair share of struggling, and had always doubted law almost as strongly as she'd feared the Kurain Channeling Technique.

Then there were moments when Mia was clearly sick of her role, and Maya could see more than anything that her sister would rather dissipate the image entirely. Maya was exhausted: she believed almost wholeheartedly in her sister's omniscience, but then she was familiar with spirit channeling and spirits themselves. She was also quite familiar with Mia's face: and right now those resonating, serene features were crying out _You're going to ask my advice, but please don't!_

That was only fair. Maya finally knew the situation: no one was more involved in this whole debacle than Mia herself, and Maya wished, more than anything else, that there could be an easy resolution.

Finally, Maya sniffed and spoke again. She'd only woken up ten minutes before, and acutely felt the hollowness of her own features, the weakness of her limbs. "So, let me get this all straight. Dahlia killed someone when she was in college, and then tried to kill Nick because he found out. So you put her in jail for _that_. You and Prosecutor Godot." She'd given Mia the short version of her own experiences, those she hadn't been able to leave in the note. The murder in the Inner Temple's garden… the killer she'd seen… Maya knew what was coming.

Maya saw her sister wince ever so slightly, turning her face to hide it. "Yes, _mei-mei_. Do you remember me coming to Kurain Village that time when someone at my office died?"

It took a moment for Maya to remember the exact instance: it had been almost six years before, when she herself had just started formal training with Aunt Morgan. A brief light dawned. "Ohhhh! That person killed by Dahlia back then was…" She looked up, frowning. "But wait a second…"

"I know," Mia said, stopping her. "I told you then that Dahlia had killed Diego." There was almost a little hiccup in her calm voice, as if she'd choked a little over his name. Maya felt something in her stomach wrench a little. She went on, "We all thought he was dead. I didn't find out otherwise until just before I myself died… and after that it was too late for me to tell you or Phoenix. I'm so sorry." It was unlike Mia to run on so wordily, and this was obviously an effort. Maya saw that her sister was on the brink of tears, and bowed her own head.

"It's okay," she answered reflexively, biting her lip. She furrowed her brow in frustration and thought, wishing more than anything that she could summon the necessary anger to burst out. Usually that was how she kept her cool: Nick always found it funny that she got so mad (or so excited) about things, but truth be told Maya got frightened when her own energy level was low. Looking up again, she saw that her sister's gaze was full of concern now: something else inside her snapped, and this time she knew what it was.

She'd missed Mia so badly after her sister's death: it had been like losing their mother all over again, except worse because she was older now. Until Pearls had finally stepped in and channeled Mia, Maya had felt so unbearably alone… even helping Nick and seeing so much action, there had been a wound in her that hadn't healed. She'd secretly hoped that a lot of time, especially time spent with someone she loved, too, would help. But it seemed worse every time Mia came. The joy of seeing her again was always horribly overshadowed by the knowledge that she would leave soon, that she would essentially die once more. It was like watched a beloved friend get hit by a bus over and over again.

Now she had a choice. She knew who Prosecutor Godot had been: Mia hadn't specifically said so, but Maya knew better than to think the man "killed" six years ago had been just some co-worker. The two of them had obviously been great friends, probably more than just that. But she knew Prosecutor Godot was the killer… or at least that he had been the man standing behind Dahlia. With a sword. Prepared to save Maya's own life by killing her mother. So either she could tell the truth and send Mia's friend to jail… or she could do something a little harder.

It was all just too painful, and Maya felt her own shoulders sag. It was all she could do not to cry. Mia's voice sounded desperate as her hands came around Maya, clasping her. "Oh, sweetpea… all you have to do is tell the truth. Nothing I told you matters, after all."

"Of course it does!" Maya answered, quietly. She wished she could have snapped out the retort, and Mia seemed to understand, her hands tightening a little. "Don't worry, Sis. I'll protect him."

That obviously took Mia _completely_ aback, since she was silent for a long moment. "Protect who?" she finally asked, her voice unsteady.

"Prosecutor Godot," Maya answered, feeling her own voice tighten. She briefly recalled how she'd hated him, simply because he himself clearly hated Nick so badly. And she knew why now: it had to have been because of Mia. He'd hated Nick because Phoenix hadn't kept Mia from dying, or some other stupid testosterone thing that men got upset over. Maya knew that if she weren't so tired, she would be fuming at Dahlia Hawthorne, how she'd ruined everything: now she just felt a vague sense of unreality. "He was just trying to help me, Sis. I can't let him go to jail for that."

Mia's brows contracted, whether in pain or in overwrought laughter Maya couldn't quite tell. "Oh, Maya," was all she could say. Maya felt herself pulled into a tight embrace, one that left her almost wheezing for breath, and found that her sister was in tears.

"Maya," she finally said, sniffing back the emotion, "Maya, I love you, but you can't do that. That would be perjury. You know Phoenix won't let you, in any case." What did Nick have to do with anything? Maya wondered. There probably wasn't any hard evidence that Nick could use without testimony, and if she altered her own story he wouldn't be able to do anything.

She said as much to Mia, but her sister shook her head. "No, Maya. It's been a long time since he cross-examined you, and he's expert at it now. You can't lie to Phoenix on the witness stand, even if you want to."

The frustration finally took over. There wouldn't be anyone on her side, not even Nick! Maya felt a tear roll down her cheek, and wiped it away with a shaking hand. Everyone wanted her to tell the horrible truth: even Mia was telling her not to lie, even though it was about her own friend, someone she'd seen die. Maya suddenly wished, feeling sick and terrible inside, that Mia would stop coming after this. It seemed easier to remember her as she'd been than to have her keep appearing and reawakening all of Maya's childish fears and hopes, compelling her to _need _guidance.

The door opened, startling them both, and the doctor who came over looked quite apologetic. "Sorry, miss… one of the bailiffs just came in. You're going to be called to the witness stand soon. You still look pale, do you think you'll be strong enough?"

Maya nodded. There was no sense in waiting any longer. She had no idea what she was going to do, but waiting longer wouldn't quell the panic gnawing away in her stomach. "I'm… I'll be okay."

As she stood from the examination table and prepared to leave the room, pulling her robes tight around her, Mia put her hands on Maya's shoulders. "_Mei-mei_… just remember. I love you." Maya almost couldn't meet her sister's eyes, but finally looked up, dreading the knowledge that this would probably the last time she saw Mia for awhile… if not forever. Her brown eyes were clear, if a little red-rimmed

Maya suddenly felt a growing panic, and threw her arms around her sister. "Mia… oh, Mia, I don't know what to do!"

Mia held her briefly, then released her. "Just tell the truth," she said simply. Maya felt her gaze as the bailiff came in and escorted her out, into the hallway. The medical office and its bright fluorescent lights faded behind them, like a whiff of the past that had barely existed.

She'd held her sister's hand all those years ago, had dried her tears, had comforted her when her friend died. Maya had almost felt her sister walking beside her many times, had spoken to her in the dark of night sometimes for guidance (like she would speak to Mystic Ami), and had convinced herself that Mia's presence was always there, watching over her. When Nick was too busy with court things, or when Pearly was training too hard even for her to keep up, Mia had always been there, her light and life serving as an inspiration.

But for the first time, Maya felt completely alone. The bailiff opened the door to the courtroom, and she felt her shoulders droop. The only thing she knew was that she couldn't tell the truth. Not just yet.


	5. Haunted

In general I detest the entire _Apollo Justice_ storyline, simply because Phoenix is disbarred a little over two months after the end of _Trials and Tribulations_. What the hell? That doesn't leave any time for cuddling with Edgeworth, much less chasing criminals with Maya or defending Diego or _any of the other things I write about_! *sobs*

But okay, sometimes… sometimes the Gavins are just too good to resist. In fact, they're fabulous. If it weren't for them and Thalassa and Machi Tobaye I would've thrown the game against the wall in fury. Several times. So anyway, here you go: I think I'll be writing exactly one more AJ fic after this.  


* * *

~~ 11.5 Haunted ~~

* * *

It had been a very long time since Kristoph could remember having felt this out of control. Like a pawn on a chessboard, he knew he was too helpless to control his own actions. Regardless, he would _not_ be pulled down by this… this horrifyingly simple series of coincidences! This was his choice and his alone.

Crouched in the dark, carefully clutching a glass bottle in one manicured hand, he reached up with the other to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Voices echoed faintly from the other side of the wall. Both men were still cordial, talking calmly about the game itself, perhaps goading one another, bluffing and joking. One of them laughed, a hand pounded the table. They were actually having fun.

Kristoph had never cared much for poker: even now he felt his cheeks burn in fury and shame at the thought of it. Such a stupid, mindless game! Anyone with half a brain could play it. He preferred bridge, the subtle touches of a chess match finessed by the concept of trump, with only a minimum reliance on the luck of the cards. Gramarye never could have beaten him at his own game.

He took a deep breath through his nostrils, shifting position slightly. This kind of hunting suited him, even if it were a forced action. The darkness was comforting, impenetrable. Kristoph knew that he was about to commit a crime, but somehow his mind had calmly accepted it. _They_ had broken the rules, had tried to catch him at his own game. Wright had been watching him, had driven Kristoph to make the first move. That would be his undoing.

* * *

During dinner three hours ago, Kristoph would never have thought himself in a position to murder Zak Gramarye and pin the blame on Phoenix Wright.

After all, the magician had disappeared from the face of the earth six years ago, even leaving his own daughter behind. Furthermore, while Kristoph knew Wright's lazy eyes were on him, he suspected that the other man would never have the means to blackmail him, or even cause him trouble. For all Wright knew, his erstwhile defender and sometime dinner partner was just a kind-hearted compatriot, who sympathized with a disbarred companion. Kristoph had gained his trust by being the other council member to vote against the disbarment.

"I have _never_ seen that waitress before," Wright suddenly said, putting his fork down and staring at the girl.

Kristoph was taken slightly aback, and glanced over. Truthfully, he'd never noticed her around the place, either: a tiny, fur-clad girl, obviously Russian, who ducked and blushed every time a customer ordered anything. Kristoph had only ever dined in this place, but Wright was here all the time. "Do you think she's new?"

"Probably," Wright said, just as suddenly sounding totally disinterested. Kristoph found it entertaining and mystifying how completely and immediately the man always lost interest in anything that didn't involve reruns of the Steel Samurai.

Those hooded dark blue eyes slid back to Kristoph himself, a slow grin taking over Wright's features. "I'll ask her when she comes back with the check." He shrugged. "So, anyway. Any interesting new cases?"

Kristoph looked heavenward and sighed, making Wright laugh. "Several. I'm sure you've seen one in the paper. A certain horse racer…"

"Oh, so that's you defending the jockey against his horse's owner," Wright said, laughing still. He was leaned back in his chair, arms hooked over the back of it and tilted back at a dangerous angle. A vicious image of him falling over backwards flashed through Kristoph's mind, and he allowed himself to smile. "That sounded like a great case to me. What was it he did again? Stole something?"

It was as if Wright didn't ever read anything better than the streetside tabloids: Kristoph knew better, but humored himself and Wright by explaining. "According to the police, Mr. Levine _allegedly_ stole a horse from the owner's stables. The only proof the prosecution has thus presented are the marks on the defendant's pants' rear end." Kristoph smiled, reliving the memory of Payne presenting _that_ in court. "They were semicircular horseshoe marks matching those of the horse's. They found hoof prints in the stable."

"And your defense is…?" Wright said, prodding. He'd picked the fork back up and was munching a cutlet of chicken from it like a lollipop; Kristoph felt vaguely queasy at the sight, but had grown too used to Wright's poor table manners to comment.

He coughed to cover his discomfort and answered Wright's question. This whole conversation was something of a farce, anyway. He could have told a blatant lie, and the other man would merely have smiled and nodded. Wright didn't give a damn about his cases, anyway.

Their conversation turned to law itself, and Kristoph found himself getting actually interested. Wright was a strong backer of the new Jurist System. "What really matters," he had said before, and was saying just now, "is that there isn't always evidence. Sometimes there really isn't anything left at the scene of the crime. Before you know it, someone is arrested on principle, and without strong evidence they can't be proven innocent."

"This country," said Kristoph somewhat stiffly—they'd argued this before—"builds its court cases on _innocent before proven guilty_. Our officers always arrest someone for a reason."

Wright snorted, sitting up straighter but still tilting backwards, making the position look even more precarious. He was _still_ smiling that insipid half-grin, but Kristoph could hear the seriousness and naïve earnestness in his voice. "Give me a break. For one, all of my defendants had their heads on the chopping block. Do you know how many times I defended someone simply because they were handy on the scene of the crime?"

"As I recall," Kristoph said drily, "your most notorious cases involved a girl who was seen stabbing the victim—"

"Iris was merely desecrating the body to cover for the real murderer!" Wright interjected.

"And before that, your assistant was found clutching the murder weapon, where she was the only person in the room—"

"That was a setup! Maya wouldn't hurt a fly!"

"And the time that magician was specifically seen flying away from the scene of the crime?" He wasn't sure if he was still serious, or if he were merely goading.

"That was pure coincidence, the murderer used a false bust of Max to kill the ringleader, and… and…"

"Then there was that prosecutor, the only person on the scene of the crime, fingerprints all over the gun, unwilling to admit even to himself who'd committed the crime…" Kristoph waited for Wright to interject again, but the other man was silent, looking away. He smiled to himself.

Finally, Wright looked back at him, for the first time irritated. "Kristoph, can I ask what your point is?"

"It is," Kristoph said acerbically, "that each time you've defended someone, you blindly believed that he or she was innocent, and therefore felt they'd been unjustly accused. Yet the police officers had good reason to arrest them. It was only your excellent investigative and defensive skills that revealed the true murderer in each situation." Kristoph privately preferred 'blind idiotic luck' over 'skills', but left that part unsaid. "This Jurist System, the idea of letting emotional jurists take control of the courts… it's a rape of the law. Evidence is the only thing that can win a case."

Wright was already shaking his head: the grin was back, and Kristoph felt a vague fury growing. Every time he rationally argued the man down, it was just a simple smile-and-retreat. "Well, if you say so, Kristoph."

He was tempted, for just an instant, to throw his mostly-empty plate across the table and straight into Wright's lap. But it wouldn't have made a difference, even if he'd been so out of control: the man was a total slob, and probably would have laughed and chalked it up to clumsiness.

Kristoph felt a sudden craving for a cigarette, and in a moment of vague nostalgic confusion, actually put his hand to his pocket. The cigarette case wasn't there, of course: he hadn't smoked since he'd left Germany over a decade ago. But the craving was still there: watching Wright lean back further in the chair, looking to the ceiling and putting his hands behind his head, Kristoph could imagine the sharp _chff_ of the lighter, that first hot fresh pull. He wasn't entirely sure what had dredged up the comforting old habit.

"I suppose I should eventually get going," he said uncomfortably, feeling much more awkward now that the cigarette craving was pushing at the back of his brain.

"Okey-doke," said Wright, sounding as if he couldn't care less what anyone else did, not limited to but including Kristoph, his own daughter, and God. "Nice having dinner with you again." He leaned back even more precariously, for one moment suspended at the very edge of tipping, and after snagging a grape juice bottle from beside the piano, thumped his chair back on all four feet.

Kristoph suddenly wondered if, in fact, said dinners only kept happening because he was somehow attracted to Wright. Initially he'd started having them because the man fascinated him intellectually. Any more, they'd grown routine and occasionally entertaining. Yes, Kristoph had ulterior motives: but were they perhaps disguised also by something more visceral? He felt his cheeks burn.

Certainly the other man was attractive—or at least had been, in his glory years. Kristoph recalled distinctly the biting jealousy as he gazed across the court at the man who had stolen his client. Not only was he a sheepish half-rookie, but unnervingly good-looking, too.

Even now, scruff and languor notwithstanding, Kristoph could sense something viscerally attractive about the ex-attorney, something indefinably gravitational. He'd heard rumors from friends in the prosecutor's office, about Wright having some kind of relationship there…

He mentally shook himself, rising from his chair. This was thoroughly unproductive and _very_ distracting. _Do your daydreaming about Wright when he's not sitting right in front of you, Idioten_, he thought, not without heat. But he allowed himself just one more glance, pretending to study the rather good piano in the background. Even the man's _scent_ was attractive: it was somewhere between a clean shower and the natural, masculine pheromones of someone who didn't work too hard at it. Yes, Kristoph was fairly certain of where the other man's interests lay. They may or may not be with Kristoph himself, but those rumors were probably true.

"I'm sure we'll see each other again soon," he forced himself to say, and without much further ado, they parted.

The tiny waitress was just reappearing to take their plates, and Kristoph was amused that she scuttled away at his polite "Good evening_, Fraulein_." He arrowed for the main entrance hallway, noting as he buttoned his coat that someone else was entering.

The moment seemed to last a lifetime: he brushed past the other man, nodding and saying once again, "Evening." The man just looked at him, eyes flickering wordlessly in greeting, and continued into the dining room. There was someone following him, a scrawny man, but Kristoph didn't see his features at all, blinded by what he'd just seen.

Kristoph stood frozen, a hand on the door, and slowly turned. The man's back was to him, porkpie hat looking dreadfully tacky with that white suit, but there was no disguising the image burned in Kristoph's mind. That had been Zak Gramaraye's face: and his locket.

Panic filled him. Dear God, he was heading into the dining room, where Wright would still undoubtedly be lounging. The two of them would be bound to recognize one another—the magician had been his last client!—and Kristoph could hardly imagine that Wright wouldn't casually tell Gramaraye he'd just dined with Kristoph himself. What if Wright found out Kristoph had been rejected as Gramaraye's first attorney, and realized what might have happened?

Kristoph forced himself to step outside, and took a deep breath of the night air. That was ridiculous. He was just being paranoid. How would Gramaraye and Wright ever get onto the conversation of he, Kristoph, having possibly mentioned that false evidence to Klavier, much less having commissioned it from Misham himself?

No, there would be no way.

_Still_…

An awful situation presented itself in Kristoph's mind, and just as he'd done with his thoughts of Wright, he pushed it away. Yet he knew he would have to resolve the possibility somehow. The knowledge Wright could gain from Gramaraye would rape him, especially if his feeling had been true… the feeling that all these years, Wright had been watching him after all.

* * *

Now he crouched in the darkness: the voices had risen, and he could smell his own fear, the heightened pheromones of the men in the room beyond. Gramaraye was talking loudly enough for the words to be partly discernible: something about "cheating," and "card up your sleeve!" Kristoph wondered, in a brief flash of fury, if that was how Wright won his games. If all this had been caused just because his poker tricks were better than Kristoph's own…

It didn't matter. The shouting had stopped. "Why," said Wright's voice, very calmly and quite audibly, "did you do that, Zak?"

Kristoph's heart felt like it was going to explode: he pressed himself closer behind the door.

"She… you _cheated_," responded Gramaraye's deeper tones. He was _pissed_.

"Not sure how you figure that," Wright's voice retorted. The sound of the room's main door opening was audible: the voice continued "Look, I'm calling the police, mostly because I don't want this girl, whoever she is—did you hire her?—to get me in trouble when she wakes up. Just go before they show up, Zak."

There was a loud growl of frustration as the door slammed. Kristoph's heart now leapt into his mouth: this was going to be his chance. Thank God, the waitress was unconscious or something… he would have the unchecked ability to… to…

He steeled himself. To murder Zak Gramaraye. That's what he was going to do.

With a steady hand, he found the release mechanism for the door. His final revenge against Wright was pounding in his head, those long-lost words of his own poker game with Gramaraye in tune with his utter determination to do this. A coincidental meeting wouldn't pull him down: he wouldn't let it.


	6. Tourniquet

Aw, man. Screw this song. There's just no way to work Christianity or serious suicide angst into the Phoenix Wright series (despite the general prevalence of murder and actual suicide). I promise the next one will be better.

* * *

~~ 11.6 Tourniquet ~~

* * *

Everything was sort of going numb and dark, yet the pain was still there. She tried to lift her head and found it wouldn't work; her neck just kind of twitched.

Her lungs still worked, though. Opening her mouth, she screamed, a good, healthy screech that reverberated around the room. She felt the tears rolling down beside her eyes, the stickiness clinging to her arms. Somewhere, the moon was shining in, but there were moving branches; the ceiling above her moved, phantasmagoric and full of haunting. The numbness spread, and that was more frightening than the pain.

Suddenly another shadow, a huge one, blocked out those others that moved. There was a low laugh: she couldn't discern whose. It elevated, refusing to blend with the cacophony of wind outside the window, but rather rising above it, howling and cackling. She felt her tears grow hot and fast, and screamed once more, not knowing whether she were screaming for help or death. Perhaps she was praying, though to whom she had no idea.

He loomed over her, face invisible and black; her breath stopped. A hand caressed her numb arm, lingered in the crook of her elbow lovingly. She couldn't do anything: move, scream, or blink. Just lie there, stricken and paralyzed by the shame.

His hand moved downwards as his face kept approaching: it abruptly thrust itself into the wound at her wrist, pressing and twisting so the pain escalated to a shriek. His mouth opened, a black hole against the inky face. She vaguely heard her blood pattering to the floor in a steady stream.

"Adrian," he whispered, his breath like the grave, and she finally found that she could scream again.

* * *

Franziska awoke suddenly as an elbow thrust into her ribcage and the covers were rudely yanked away. She'd never been awakened like that before! Angrily, she sat up to reprimand her bedfellow: she had an appearance to make in court in only a few hours, against a foolishly obnoxious opponent... who would nevertheless be in pieces by the end, of course.

But the words of retort froze on her lips. Adrian had fallen off the bed and was curled up in a ball on the floor, arms entirely over her head (that explained the jabbing elbows), one hand clutching the other wrist. Her face was hidden by her arms, but Franziska could tell that she was sobbing. She was saying something to the effect of, "I'm lost!"

Momentarily confused by that, Franziska paused, simply putting a hand on the other woman's shoulder. Adrian jerked away at first, but upon lowering her hands, she stared at Franziska for a moment. Obviously recognition was an important factor, because the sobs died, and she breathed out a long, shuddery breath.

"I'm... I'm sorry," she finally said in a tiny voice.

Half of Franziska was angrily befuddled (why is she apologizing for having a nightmare?) and the other half unreasonably tender. For once, she let loose the anger and said, "Was your dream that bad?"

Adrian sniffled, a little pitifully. Her blonde hair was hanging down loose, fuzzled by sleep, and she brushed a lock of it behind her ear, sitting up. She made no answer yet, just looked down, shivering. Obviously it had been that bad. Sheepishly, she offered up the covers to Franziska, making no effort to get up from the floor.

Franziska sighed, running her own fingers through her perfect hair and snatching the covers, more harshly than was probably necessary. That court appearance was at the back of her mind again, furiously clamoring for her to go back to sleep. But this was Adrian, and she probably shouldn't just let it go. "Are you all right? Would you like to tell me about it?" The words sounded stilted to her ears, and she sniffed, displeased.

Somehow, as always, Adrian managed to understand. She was on the side of the bed facing the moonrise, and from above Franziska couldn't make out her features as she spoke. "I'm okay. It was... it was just a dream."

"Your dream undoubtedly gave me a nice bruise." It slipped out before Franziska could stop it, and she felt herself blush. She hadn't spoken as sharply as usual, but it was still a horrible thing to tell someone who'd just woken up clutching her wrists and screaming.

Suddenly Franziska wondered... Aloud, she said, "Did you dream about... about when you tried to end your life?"

Such a boring phrasing of the situtation: to be so disillusioned and miserable with the world that you would try to murder yourself. Between her own nastiness and the plain despair of the situation, Franziska suddenly wanted to give Adrian an extraordinarily uncharacteristic hug.

Adrian had either missed the barb or was past the point of caring. "Yes," she said simply. "Except... different." The way she intoned the last word sent a brief shiver up Franziska's spine.

She sighed again, but this time as silently as possible, and beckoned imperiously. "Come up here, Adrian."

The other woman obeyed - but of course, she always did - but seemed unwilling to get any closer. That was to be expected, of course, Franziska thought. Their relationship, while fairly intimate and definitely unreserved, was hardly one of cuddles and giggling.

Feeling uncomfortable, she slid closer to Adrian, putting an arm around her shoulders. "How was it different?"

With a sigh of content, Adrian unbashfully leaned against her, warm and thin. "I... you know how I tried to do it, right?"

Her head was leaned against Franziska's shoulder, and her breath was coming warm on the prosecutor's collarbone. Franziska didn't strictly hate moments like this, but she certainly hated picturing them in her mind's eye. It was so foolishly undignified: cuddling with another woman in the dark. If only it didn't feel so satisfying...

Startling herself with the thought, she cleared her throat. "Er... yes. Yes, of course." Regaining her composure, she said more clearly, though still in a half-whisper, "You tried to... to hang yourself." Damn! It was still so difficult to imagine of this young woman who oozed self-confidence, even more difficult to articulate to her personally.

"Yes." Adrian obviously sensed her discomfort, and the dryness of her tone didn't escape Franziska. "Yes, I did."

She paused, and Franziska felt a stab of irritation. "Well, how was it different?" She realized she'd already asked that same question, and nobly restrained from saying so. It had been her decision to ask Adrian about the dream, after all: she might as well get all the details.

Adrian still didn't answer for a moment. But her hand tightened around Franziska's (she hadn't even noticed that they were holding hands) and when she finally answered, it was in a very low voice. Even more so than before. "Well... there was blood. A lot of blood. I think in my dream, I tried to cut my wrists."

Franziska shuddered involuntarily, and Adrian felt it. She giggled, a little hysterically, and sniffed. "Yes. It was awful. I never even thought about doing that in real life."

"How terrible," Franziska murmured, and with a start, realized that she sincerely meant it: that it wasn't just words of comfort. As impossible as it had been to imagine Adrian standing on the chair, pulling the noose around her neck, writing the suicide note, tear-stained... it was completely impossible to see her with a razor blade.

An extraordinarily unwelcome memory of her father intruded into Franziska's thoughts: his scorn at another failed suicide. She herself couldn't have been more than four or five, since she distinctly recalled Miles having been twelve. "What an idiot," her father had coldly said of their paralegal. "Doesn't he know that one pulls the blade down the arm, not across?"

Franziska gritted her teeth, turning her nose into Adrian's hair in an attempt to forget. Still... it was impossible to push aside the thought that the suicidal young man had been the von Karma family's last paralegal aide: Miles had sufficed after that point. There had been an extraordinarily large amount of blood.

She squeezed her eyes shut to that and inhaled, smelling clean shampoo. That was enough to distract her senses, to lead her thoughts away from her father, to keep her from thinking about Miles himself.

"Anyway, it was just a dream," said Adrian, whose voice sounded unnaturally calm. Probably it was forced, Franziska thought. Adrian was good at hiding her terror, after all.

"You were whispering 'I'm lost,'" said Franziska suddenly, unsure what either her motivations were for asking or where the curiosity came from. "Why?"

Adrian was silent for a while. It was starting to grow light outside: Franziska hadn't looked at the clock yet, and hadn't realized just how close it was to dawn. A bird or two was chirping reassuringly, making the room seem less dark and foreboding.

Finally, as Franziska began pulling her hand out of Adrian's, the other woman said, almost too quietly to hear, "It was because of Celeste."

Franziska waited. Eventually the small voice continued. "I loved her so much… I needed her even more. Without here there was just… there was nothing. When I decided to do it, it was because… I thought I might find her there. But of course that was silly, because even on the other side of my noose there only would have been death." Adrian's voice had risen, until Franziska began to feel uncomfortable. "There wouldn't have been anyone there for me."

An awful suspicion had been growing in Franziska's mind for some months. Now, as Adrian spoke, she felt a simultaneous stab of guilt and disgust in the pit of her stomach.

"You wouldn't… do you rely on me like that?" she asked.

Adrian looked up at her, and in the faint growing dawn, Franziska could see the look in her eyes. It wasn't anger or desperation, like she'd expected: but simple surprise. "Er… well… not really. I mean…" The other woman took a deep breath, pausing, obviously to think. Finally, she just blinked, laughing a little. "I certainly think you're amazing, and I'm happier to be here than anywhere else in the world... but I don't think for an instant that you will let me use you as a crutch, Franzi."

The relief that gushed through Franziska was inordinately indescribable: like the loosening of a knot that had been chafing for some time now. "No, I wouldn't," she said haughtily, and guiltily leaned over to kiss Adrian. It was too late to go back to sleep now, and as she put her arms entirely around the other woman, Franziska thought that, on the whole, it was better that way.


	7. Imaginary

Oh my gosh. I mean, I love Klavier and all, but he's nothing compared to his brother.

I didn't incorporate as many of the exact lyrics into this one, but I think the general theme of the song is Vera Misham to a T. (Plus I like writing from a kid's POV.) You… you guys are looking up the lyrics to these songs if you don't know them… right?

* * *

~~ 11.7 Imaginary ~~

* * *

Vera lay happily on the floor, crayons arrayed at her hand and crumpled papers forming a field of flowers around her. Nowadays she preferred to copy pictures, but every once in a while she still enjoyed creating an original work of art. Right now it was a mural for her bedroom, on lavender-colored paper. Vera liked to think that it was modeled after Van Gogh's _Starry Night_, but something in her mind was saying it didn't look anything like that famous painting. It was 3-D, after all.

Still, she liked the look of it, and her dad said he would help her hang it up on the wall when she'd finished. She dipped her head closer to the paper, scribbling away with the olive green crayon. When that crayon wore out, she'd move to pine green. All of them were in order of color, and she was creating swirls of rainbow, but with more tints than any rainbow had ever sported.

Her dad came into the room. "Vera, it's almost time for dinner." He reached over and turned her CD player down just a little: it was her favorite lullaby, a soothing song with the relaxing quality of wind whispering through the pines. "I decided to try and make your favorite noodles, and I think you'll like them."

"Okay, Daddy," she said, and immediately got up. Then she paused, and bent to put the olive green crayon back exactly where it belonged. Exciting! Peanut noodles for dinner? This hadn't happened since Mommy left.

Vera lingered in the doorway for a minute, looking longingly at the fuchsia wall her mural was going to go on, then followed her dad down the hall, adjusting her lilac-striped dress as she went. It certainly smelled like her favorite old recipe.

Passing the doorway, she wrinkled her nose, clutching her notebook closer and edging past. The door meant outdoors, rampant chaos and dirty disorder. It also meant danger. She moved closer to her father, even though the door was bolted and probably safer than her window.

The kitchen window itself was dark, with only the glimmer of raindrops sliding down the glass an indication of anything at all outside. She looked at them, trying to trace a story in their drops: for a moment they slid together, making a willow tree, branches swaying in the wind. Then they faded.

Vera sat down at the table, neatly arranging her plate and glass evenly. Her dad tried to pick up the noodles, muttered "Ouch!" when the hot pot burned his hand, and tried again with a pot holder. Vera sniffed happily.

"All right, pumpkin. You're first." Her dad lifted a huge spoon of the noodles onto her plate. Only about half of them made it, the rest slipping plumply onto the tablecloth.

Vera giggled. "Whoops," her father said sheepishly.

They ate in companionable silence, as usual. The noodles were just as good as Vera remembered, and she ate all she could. Their chopsticks clicked in the same satisfying way Vera's knitting needles did. "Really tasty," she said at one point, and her father looked immensely pleased.

"We'll have the leftovers for lunch tomorrow," Drew said, and she smiled.

After dinner they did their usual: her dad washed and she dried. He said he liked to slosh the water around like Jackson Pollock, except cleaning, and Vera's favorite part of washing dishes was stacking their plates and glasses and pots neatly in the cupboard. Also cleaning up after her dad's sloshing. As she finished tucking the last pair of chopsticks into place, he managed to splash the draining water onto his shirt one last time, and they both laughed as she cleaned up the soap suds with a towel.

"Vera," he said suddenly, startling her a little. They usually didn't talk much together, and when they did it was a certain times of the day. Before dinner, getting up in the morning, or whenever he left to buy groceries. If either one of them spoke, it surely meant something new.

She didn't say anything aloud, but looked up eagerly. New things could be good or bad, but last time it had been new charcoals. Maybe this was something like that!

"Vera, we're having a couple of visitors tonight." She looked at her dad closely, trying to see if he was happy or fearful. It was worse than that: he was being neutral, hiding all his feelings.

"Okay," Vera said finally, uneasy. She reached for her notepad and started doodling: a sad face, a nervous face, a hopeful face. Maybe her dad was only hiding his feelings because he didn't want her to get so excited.

He noticed her drawing, and suddenly looked embarrassed again. "Oh. I didn't mean to make you worry. It's a good thing, a good visit. Someone else wants you to copy something for them."

Oh, another job! Vera liked helping her dad with art jobs, with copying pictures and sculptures for people. She figured that the customers just wanted to give their friends extra copies of their favorite art. That seemed nice, and her dad said she had a real talent for it.

She bounced in excitement, and her dad smiled. "See? It'll be fun. They should be here soon. I'm sure they would love your coffee, pumpkin."

Vera jumped up immediately. That was another one of her favorite tasks, making coffee for her dad. She didn't really like to drink it (not without a lot of cream and sugar, anyway), but she loved the smell and the complexity of preparation: it was like a science experiment. Besides that, ever since she'd read about traditional tea ceremonies, Vera had taken additional pleasure in the arrangement of cups, the use of certain sugars, and the correct placement of flowers.

She was so engaged in making the coffee that ten minutes later, when the doorbell rang, she hardly noticed. The wafting scents of java filled the kitchen, rich and earthy, and her favorite tea cups (bone china, with colorless molded jasmines twining around the edges) were set out perfectly, with matching sugar and cream bowls alongside.

"Vera," said her dad, startling her. "Vera, these are our visitors."

Before turning to greet the visitors, she carefully undid her art smock and draped it over a chair. Then she looked around at them. One was strange-looking: skinny and buck-toothed, and Vera's nose wrinkled as she smelled the strong peppermint odor wafting from his direction. But that man didn't hold her attention. The other man stole it all away.

He was tall, angelically blonde, and handsome. Vera had little experience of such things, but she thought he was probably the most beautiful person she'd ever seen. He smiled at her gently, adjusting his glasses with one delicate finger. "Hello, Vera." Even his voice was lovely, with the slightest trace of an accent. Vera wanted to sculpt a statue of him.

But somehow her dad looked a little bit nervous as he spoke. "This is a very important gentleman, Vera. He's a lawyer, and he wants to ask you to make something for him."

She looked up again, wondering why her dad was so uneasy. But there was nothing in this Raphael to frighten her: he exuded intelligent goodwill from sky-blue eyes. Perhaps Drew just didn't like the other man, she decided. She held out her hand, and it was gravely shaken.

Her father ushered the two men into chairs. The three adults made casual—and if Vera wasn't mistaken, careful—conversation, while she served the coffee, this time in her best apron, the one with the frills. The second man, the one who smelled awfully like toothpaste, talked too loud and slurped down his coffee like a dog. But the attorney, whose eyes occasionally turned to her, was the vision of politeness, using all the correct utensils and sipping genteelly.

As she came to his elbow, offering the coffee urn, he smiled at her radiantly, and thanked her. "Your coffee is delightful, _Fraulein_," he said. "Is it from Antigua, or is my palate deceived?"

Vera was startled. Of all her father's visitors, fellow artists and customers alike, this demi-god archangel was the first to recognize the coffee blend she used. "Y-yes…" she said, faltering, staring at him. Then she rallied her courage, realizing how exciting it was to meet a fellow coffee gourmand. "My dad lets me order it. It's fair trade."

The attorney made an approving noise, and added, "Very conscientious. Thank you, that's enough."

She ducked her head a little at having almost over-poured his coffee, and mentally smiled in exhilaration as he patted her hand. This was so exciting! Usually the men and women who came in to commission art from Vera were sweaty, close-lipped, and nervous. Either that, or they frightened her. She didn't know much about this mysterious stranger, but she hoped her father liked him as much as she did.

She cleaned up the coffee when the adults had finished, carefully washing the china and replacing it in the glass-faced cabinet. The soft clinking of the cups was soothing, and Vera thought she might add the lawyer into her mural tonight. Maybe not his face, but a part that looked like his essence: an angel in a businessman's suit.

Behind her, the conversation tapered off. "Say, Mr. Misham," the obnoxious, minty-smelling guest said cheerfully, "can I ask you some questions about that equipment in your other room?"

Her dad looked confused, and his eyes flicked to Vera. She just stared back. Why not? The machines were fun to use, and she couldn't understand why her dad would hesitate to show them off.

"O-okay," Drew said finally. "Well, Mr. Brushel, if you'll just follow me…" The two of them left, taking the awful smell of mint with them.

Their second guest didn't hesitate, and Vera suddenly knew that the other man had only been distracting her dad. "Vera, would you mind sitting down with me?" She obeyed, and he added, "I'd like to talk about commissioning a piece of art from you."

"All right," she said immediately. _Commission_—it was such a grown-up word, and Vera felt excitement at having it applied to her own work. She reached for her notepad and doodled a face: curious.

He didn't even glance down at her drawing: obviously, for once, she was expressive enough on her own. "First, I would like to introduce myself to you, since it is rude to keep you a stranger when I already know your name. My name is Mr. Gavin."

She offered her hand again, and it was shaken in the same manner: quite seriously, as if she were a lawyer, too. Then he added, "This commissioned work is probably going to sound boring. From what I understand, _Fraulein_, you're used to making much more complicated pieces of art. This happens to be a piece of writing: a page from a diary."

It did sound boring. Vera didn't keep a diary, since the only people who did that were the ones who couldn't remember the pictures of their own lives, and had to write them down. She turned down the corners of her curious face's mouth into a moue. Mr. Gavin looked down at it and laughed gently, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"I know. I expected as much. But trust me, this piece of work will be much more difficult than a picture would be." The item he held in his slender fingers was a beat-up old piece of lined paper, covered in faded but legible cursive writing. "It won't be an exact copy: you only need to use the handwriting, if you understand what I mean. I shall provide the words."

Vera wrinkled her brow, staring at the paper. She understood just fine: Mr. Gavin wanted it to look like someone had written more than just this ragged little scrap. Looking up into his blue eyes, she froze for a moment. What reason could he have for wanting that?

She sat back for a moment, keeping his gaze, folding her hands in her lap and feeling the frills of the apron tickle her wrists. This was silly. What reason did she have not to trust Mr. Gavin? Just a moment ago, she'd been wondering why her father was hesitating: and now she herself was unsure. His eyes were still radiating a calm humor, but now it seemed they hid something.

Vera looked away at the window, at the purple sky of the storm outside, trying to figure out why she felt so uneasy. Mr. Gavin's voice brought her back, though. "Vera, I'm doing this for a friend of mine: actually, for my brother." The affectionate tone of his voice was unmistakable, and she suddenly felt the fear slip away, turning back to look at his face.

He was smiling ever so slightly, and looked almost wistful. "Klavier is very young, and sometimes he needs help doing his job. This will make it easier for him."

Vera didn't understand what any of it meant: but Mr. Gavin's words had made her decision easier. If it was to help his brother, it didn't really have to make sense, did it? She figured it must be another adult thing. After all, he was an attorney: maybe his brother was a lawyer, too, and it had to do with complicated courtroom things.

She stood up. "All right," she said, feeling an unusual smile break across her face.

Mr. Gavin immediately looked both relieved and excited. "Thank you, Vera. Now, this may seem strange: but I would like you to write these words onto this diary page." He handed her two more pieces of paper, one with printed words, the other lined and blank, with one ragged edge. He smiled, and there was no patronization in his tone as he added, "You will only get one chance to create the new diary page, so I would think you could practice on another sheet of paper first."

Vera nodded seriously, imagining in her head what the page might look like. It would have to be dated, of course: but Mr. Gavin had provided that on the printed sheet. She noticed a few strange phrases, like "Fate's clock" and "ten swift minutes," but suddenly felt too excited to actually read it.

She suddenly heard her father's voice, and that of the other guest, too. Mr. Gavin suddenly moved more quickly than he had yet, and produced something small, glassy, and shiny. "Vera, I'll be providing ample compensation for your talents of course: your father and I will be making a monetary exchange. But this is a gift for you—a good-luck charm of sorts."

It was nail polish. Vera hardly ever painted her nails—she hadn't even been allowed to do so until last year—and she stared at Mr. Gavin's gift, bereft of words. It was such a pretty little blue bottle, with a glass brush handle, shaped like a delicate hand. His fingers tucked it into her own, and she clutched it to her heart, looking up into his face with gratitude.

Mr. Gavin smiled, even more broadly and dazzlingly than before. "It's called Ariadoney. It only retains its good luck if you keep it a secret, of course. But don't be afraid to use it for your nails, just like regular polish. That makes it even luckier."

Vera nodded solemnly. Sometimes she wondered if there was really such a thing as good luck: but right now, she felt like a gift like this from a person like Mr. Gavin could only be lucky.

She pulled the brush from the bottle and started applying the polish right away, as Mr. Gavin bid her a polite "_Adieu, Fraulein_," and began speaking to her dad. When she looked up, her heart skipped a beat.

The second guest, Mr. Brushel, had said something and was braying laughter. He couldn't see Mr. Gavin's face, which was suddenly tight with irritation.

So was his hand, clenched in a fist.

Vera's fingers tightened on the nail polish. That lovely manicured hand…

She turned and ran for her room, trying with all her might to forget what she'd seen. But it was useless. The image was burned into her mind, crossed with the image of Mr. Gavin's beautiful face.

His hand, tightened… she didn't know what the devil looked like, but that scar on Mr. Gavin's hand, juxtaposed with the hollowed-out tendons…

Vera buried her face in her pillow and let out a sob. No! It had just been a trick of her imagination. He was her new friend, someone who appreciated her talents… that terrible picture couldn't have been right.

She remembered suddenly that the letter and diary page were still tucked into her apron pocket, and sat up to pull them out, trying to dry her tears.

She looked at them for a while: so long, in fact, that finally her dad came in. "Vera? Pumpkin, are you all right?"

Vera looked up and nodded, wiping the last traces of her tears away. She looked up onto her ceiling, then down at the mural on her floor. Then she shivered. She could finish it now: but she was certain she couldn't put Mr. Gavin in it now. If she did, every time she looked at it… she would see the devil on his hand. It might have only been imaginary, her silly mind making up something to balance his angelic face. But it might not have been, after all.


	8. Taking Over Me

Bahhhh, Narumitsu is no fun with Mitsu is not physically present. *sigh*

* * *

~ 11.8 Taking Over Me ~

* * *

I stared at myself in the mirror, taking as deep a breath as I could. There was technically no need to dress up for the exam, but I had a feeling my classmates would likewise be wearing suits and dresses. I reached up to tighten my favorite tie.

After all this, I could hardly believe I was going through with it. Three years of hard study—as well as hours spent as an undergrad—and I was finally throwing myself at the bar exam.

Why?

I contemplated my reflection, laughing a little at myself. Exhausted from nights of studying, my eyes were slightly hollowed, and my lips, tight with fatigue and determination, were hardly attractive. A couple of classmates had tried to encourage me to go bar-hopping downtown the night before. Even Larry had noticed my stress, and had clapped me on the back last night, saying, "Yo, Nick! You need a date to relax you before the test!"

My only response had been a long, withering look (which, to be fair, was my general response to most of Larry's suggestions.) It had been over three years since I'd really gotten serious with anyone, and that had ended disastrously. The thought of picking up some _chick_ at a bar was incredibly distasteful. Besides that, I doubted any girl would have anything to do with me, hollowed-out and grey as I was right now. I'd given up practically everything that had once seemed so important.

I turned away from the mirror, feeling sick. It wasn't my face I saw in the mirror now, and every time my hands caressed a law brief or turned the pages of a review book, someone else was seeing them. So many things inside of me belonged to another person. And that wasn't just because of the oncoming bar exam: all of it had started close to four years ago.

* * *

Finding the telephone number had been close to impossible. The prosecutor's office in the area was notoriously unreachable, unless one were somehow connected to it: and obviously I had no such connection. Then there had been the challenge of finding the specific extension I wanted.

"Can't you just email him?" Dollie had said timidly the night before.

I'd shaken my head. "No. I think anything not from their internal sever must get automatically shuffled to Spam. Kenneth—" a mutual acquaintance of ours who had interned at the prosecutor's offices a summer ago "—said he never got any of my emails when he was there."

And besides that, none of my recent emails had been answered, and I refused to think I was just being ignored.

Now I sat at my desk, alone, clutching the telephone like a drowning man with a lifesaver. This was my last hope: on stroke of luck during a previous test call, I'd learned that four-digit phone extensions were assigned by office number. That meant room 511 had extension 0511. So in theory, if I dialed room 1201 it should reach…

"High Prosecutor's Office," said a gravelly voice that added _Don't waste my time_ without saying another word. In my head, I saw a very angry face. This was it.

"H-hello," I said firmly, feeling my hand shake on the receiver. "I'm trying to reach Miles Edgeworth. He's interning with this office…?"

There was a silence, punctuated decisively by the tapping of computer keys in the background. There was no conversation, just the swish of the phone being changed hands. I almost gasped when a voice said irritably, "This is Miles Edgeworth. Who is calling?"

That was the crucial moment, and I screwed it up. Gulping like a small child facing a schoolteacher, I managed to say, "Erm, my name is Phoenix Wright… Miles, I don't know if you remember me—"

"If you're asking to be represented, you've called the wrong office," the voice interrupted. That flat baritone didn't sound anything like what I'd expected. "And unless I'm mistaken, this is a restricted line. Please make an appointment through my superior's secretary if we have case matters to discuss. Thank you."

Click.

It was awhile before I could force myself to replace the phone in the cradle. I hadn't even had the chance to respond: I'd already attempted to make an appointment through the High Prosecutor's secretary, all of my emails had clearly been deleted, and I'd even been escorted out of the building by security. I felt sure my phone number would be immediately blocked.

There was no other way to reach Miles Edgeworth.

I let my head sink to the desk with a thud. The last three nights I'd stayed awake almost until dawn, trying _not_ to think about him. Then, when I'd finally fallen asleep, I'd tossed restlessly, dreams of a class trial haunting me. I had never had a friend who'd affected me so much, and the thought of giving up on him felt like a baseball bat to the stomach.

Then I raised my head. There was a way. "Damn it, Miles," I said to myself softly. It was too crazy to be real, but it would work. There was one way that I could invariably get in touch with him. "You can't get away from me yet."

* * *

Now, as I pushed open the front door of the law building, I wondered vaguely if this would be worth it. I'd long ago decided that law was the life for me, after all: dealing in facts rather than interpretations pleased something inside me. Actually _being_ a lawyer would be great. It was the consequences that might play out badly.

Certainly if I passed the bar, meeting Miles in court would be easy enough. He was now the High Prosecutor himself, and handled almost all cases involving murder, theft, rape, or other serious crimes. Any defense lawyer suicidal enough to volunteer would be _handed_ a case prosecuted by the great Edgeworth.

But would he even remember me? The thought of him really not recognizing me practically took my breath away, even as I told myself he'd _have_ to remember someone he'd known so intimately. The rumors couldn't be true, after all. The intense yet earnest boy I'd known could never have changed so much that he would tamper with evidence, fix witnesses, and hide facts from the court. And someone with such a photographic memory could never forget a friend, no matter how long ago it was.

I caught a glimpse of my face in a reflective window, and once again sighed. Then again, maybe he could. Law school had changed me entirely: like the Miles I remembered, my arguments always ended up centering around the truth, and my fellow students had often complained that I went overboard (even to my own detriment) to find the facts behind a case. My quest to find my friend had consumed me, body and soul.

"No cell phones or other electronic devices," a monitor was saying quietly, to each student as we entered the room. His eyes met mine, and he repeated, "No cell phones or other electronic devices."

I patted my pockets to indicate that I was clean, and he gestured me towards a seat in the back row.

There were still several minutes left. I closed my eyes and tried to focus. This exam would probably be a breeze compared to finals. But that was only if I could concentrate on something besides his face, so desperately empty, consumed by loneliness.

Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes again and looked towards the blackboard. A sign was hung above, a quote from something: "One life ends… another begins."

That seemed inspiration enough. As the monitor began handing out pencils, I finally found my concentration. My new life could begin after this. Whatever happened, whether Miles Edgeworth remembered me or not… enough of him remained in me that I could live.


	9. Hello

Maybe it's just from watching too much Miyazaki but I LOVE CHILDREN.

* * *

~~ 11.8 Hello ~~

* * *

Miles Edgeworth didn't really remember much about his mom. She had died when he was little, and most of his impressions of her involved tinkling laughter and soft brown hair.

The memory of her funeral was a bit stronger: it had been the only time he'd ever seen his father cry, and he distinctly recalled feeling not sad, but frightened. For the first time, too, someone besides his father had picked him up from kindergarten. "Miles, my name is Rita," she'd said softly, playground noise and ringing school bells almost obscuring the name. "Your dad asked me to pick you up from school."

At the funeral—he still had no memory of how she'd actually died—his mother had looked angelically beautiful. Miles had almost been hopeful that it was all a mistake, that she was just asleep: but soon he noticed that she wasn't breathing, and clung to his silent father's hand.

Now his father was gone, too. Miles sat on the swing and stared at the collage wall on the side of the building. Other children in the orphanage drew pictures and pasted them to this wall, so it was an absolute riot of color. But he didn't really look at any of the pictures: what was the use of childish scribbling like that, anyway?

One of the littler girls ran up to him, jabbing him in the chest. "Tag!" she shrieked, and raced away.

He watched her go, wondering if she was one of the fortunate. Some of the kids here had a mom or a dad, but the parent was sick and had no other relatives. Others were just here in between foster parents, having been shuttled back and forth for years. Then there were others like himself, who had lost both parents. Somehow most of them seemed so happy.

Miles leaned his head against the swing's chains, swinging a leg so one toe dragged in the dust under the swings. He was studying the patterns the dust swirled in when two small feet stomped into his vision.

It was the little girl again, glowering at him. A few other children stood nearby, one or two looking embarrassed. "Hey! I tagged you, now you have to chase us!" the girl said indignantly.

"I don't want to play tag," Miles answered disinterestedly.

The girl stamped her foot: he noticed that her socks and shoes were identical to his own. "But it's _play_ time!"

He shrugged, looking away. She huffed, and turned to the other kids. Before long, he heard her lunging at someone else and shrieking, "TAG!" again. Evidently they'd managed to keep the game going without him.

Why did all of them keep trying to include him? Miles had said to several of the boys that he just didn't want to play. He wasn't overtly nasty to anyone: in fact, he'd tried smiling when he said no. But that never seemed to help. The boys wanted to talk about their favorite cartoon shows, the girls wanted to race around the playground, and all the adults just smiled vaguely at him and tried to make him do art. Or games. Or crafts. He still didn't see the point. The adults, he could sense, were trying to fix someone they thought was broken; he didn't think that really ever worked.

It was like, Miles decided, being the last human alive. As if one day, everyone but him had died. Sure, he could still live, to eat and sleep and think. Maybe even learn. He'd kept up with the lessons they taught him, and read anything the grown-ups would let him borrow.

But what was the use of doing anything? There was no one to talk to. It was like knowing he was in a dream but being unable to wake up. Everything was so numb.

"You know," said another voice, "that was _very _rude. A child should play with their peers."

Startled, Miles looked up. Before him was another little girl, but she certainly couldn't be an orphan. Her perfect little school-jumper was buttoned with mother-of-pearl beads, while her perfectly white shirt collar was held by a tiny bow and brooch. Patent leather shoes so shiny he could see his reflection in them graced her feet, neatly laced, and her oddly colored hair was stylishly cut, held in place with a silk ribbon.

The girl couldn't have been more than three years old, but as she stared haughtily at Miles, she lifted her perfect little chin and announced, "Yes. You are a foolish little boy. You must be Miles Edgeworth."

"That's enough, Franziska," said another voice, before a shocked Miles could even answer. He looked up to see an adult approaching them, tall and imposing.

"Yes, Father," said the little girl, sighing. Miles' immediate impression was that Ludwig van Beethoven had come to visit: the man wore an old-fashioned doublet, frogged down the front, matched by a glass-headed cane and tiny diamond earrings and all topped magnificently by a sweep of white hair. But as the man stepped close Miles recognized him as a lawyer: he was a prosecutor Miles had last seen on the day his father died.

He stared for a moment, then said uncertainly, "You're Mr. von Karma, sir?" He rose from the swing and bowed. Even if this man had been his father's opponent, it seemed polite.

"Your memory serves you well," von Karma said, without any visible sign of either pleasure or disappointment. "And you are Miles Edgeworth, are you not."

"Yes, sir," Miles answered. It hadn't been a question so much as a statement, but again, it seemed polite to say something. He wondered why this man was here: was it something about Gregory Edgeworth, or his last case? And what was with this little girl? She was more than obviously von Karma's daughter: as she caught Miles looking at her, she tossed her head and sniffed, hands planted on her hips in obvious imitation of her father's stance.

"I understand that you expressed some interest in studying the law," von Karma continued. "If you so wish, you may accompany me back to Germany and study there."

The idea was suggested so matter-of-factly, as if to an adult who had been already asked several times, that Miles balked for a moment. If his father had said those words, he would have belted out an answer immediately: yes, of course, he wanted to study law! But with this stranger, and all the way to a foreign country. He wanted to say _I'm only ten years old!_

"Um… er…" he stammered, feeling uncharacteristically befuddled, "Well, yes. I want to be a defense attorney, sir…"

"Ha! Only foolish fools foolishly wish to become defense attorneys," scoffed the little girl immediately. Miles was hard-pressed not to smile at her: she spoke English excellently, but a childish lisp and a slight accent made her trip over some consonants.

He felt like she might slap him if he did smile, though, and stared at her seriously. "Justice is always on the side of prosecution," she added, and gave a decisive nod. The hair ribbon wiggled ever so slightly, and she adjusted it.

Miles noticed that some of the other orphans—the ones who had been playing tag—had gathered nearby and were staring. That sort of attention didn't usually matter to him, but now the last thing he wanted was to have those children whispering behind their hands at him later.

He looked up to von Karma again: the man was obviously waiting for an answer, one eyebrow raised in anticipation. Miles took a breath, and said firmly, "I would like to study the law, sir. But I don't have any family, or any way to pay for school."

"That's of no concern," von Karma said, waving a hand as if Miles had brought up unimportant issues. "You would be studying with Franziska, after all: she would benefit from a playfellow, if you came to live with us. I would instruct you myself."

_Why?_ kept running through Miles' head, but he didn't think it prudent to ask. And he doubted that von Karma's daughter wanted any kind of playmate. She was staring at the children climbing the jungle gym with a look of disdain, as if to say, _Why are you dirtying yourselves like animals?_

"All right, sir," was eventually all he could think to answer. That seemed to be enough. Von Karma nodded, and turned with the air of a man who expects to be followed.

As Miles stepped forward to do exactly that, Franziska put her little hand in his and said smugly, "_Wunderbar_. I have always wanted a little brother. You must study hard to keep up with me, Miles Edgeworth."

Miles couldn't help it: he turned his head away and smiled at her precociousness. She was soon singing to herself and didn't notice, fortunately. As he got himself under control and looked back at her, he suddenly noticed how much her little rosebud lips looked like his mother's. How much her irritating arrogance was exactly like his own treatment of other children. How those blue eyes gazed forward with every bit as much confidence as his father's.

All of the past came flooding back, and, feeling absurd, Miles bit his lip to keep from crying. Everything was changing. He wondered if von Karma was serious, that he would start studying to become a lawyer. Would he still be able to become a defense attorney, like his father? Or should he give up all of yesterday? Perhaps defending criminals like the one who had killed his father was a bad idea, after all.

The little girl named Franziska tugged him along in her wake, and he sniffed, wiping away a single tear with his shirtsleeve so no one would notice. Thunder rumbled somewhere nearby, and Franziska made an irritated _hmph_ as wind tugged at them. "We must get inside. My dress!" she said, and pulled him forward, into the school-room.

Miles went along with her, feeling the numbness slide from his mind. The pain of the past was almost fading, and he refused to hide from the world any more. He would do what it took to regain control of himself again.


	10. My Last Breath

I'm publishing this separately just because it's so long, but this is actually the songfic that started this whole Evanescence series, "Fallen." It's also complete heresy. Bear with me on any factual assumptions or mistakes. 3

* * *

~~ 11.10 My Last Breath ~~

* * *

No… it wasn't quite time for that yet, Mia thought. Phoenix was absolutely not ready for a trial like this yet.

Scanning over the names on her computer screen, she sighed, wishing _she_ didn't even have to defend this trial. Their prosecutorial opponent wasn't particularly vicious (neither Edgeworth nor Payne, Beth-Ann Litige managed to balance a sharp wit with a soft demeanor), but dangerous all the same, simply because of her precision. The defense would have no mistakes to lean on: and while Mia didn't yet consider herself a true expert on courtroom procedure, she knew it was definitely not the time to send in a rookie, with only one case under his belt.

She frowned: she couldn't even fool herself about the case, either. When it came right down to it, the real problem was that Mia simply didn't trust her client. One of the very worst, a "self-employed" Beverly Hills resident, he was accused of his neighbor's murder. Mia usually trusted her instincts when it came down to her clients, but Brody just didn't fit the mold: he wasn't earnest or particularly shady. He was just too calm about all this, as if he knew for certain she'd get him off, whether or not he did it. That was what she was for, after all.

Mia realized she was clenching her fist again, and forced herself to relax. That was a liability of the job: she wished desperately to get back to cases more like her early days, when her client had completely relied on her, heart and soul… but then, she herself had fallen into those cases without reservation, almost losing herself completely. Those were the kinds of cases Phoenix would probably excel in, those where he could unreservedly defend his client.

Her phone rang, startling her, and she forced herself not to roll her eyes as her young partner poked his head into the room. "Should I answer that?" he asked eagerly.

Mia put a hand on the receiver, feeling terribly and unreasonably protective of whoever was ringing on the other end. It might be Maya, after all: Mia had just called her sister this morning, and was expecting her to stop by sometime that night. "No, Phoenix. I'll take it. Could you just keep looking through the briefs, see if you can find any mention of the DNA samplings?"

"Okay!" he said, just as happily, and scampered back to the desk in the front room. Mia breathed a sigh of relief, and in the moment before she picked up the receiver, reflected that she did indeed like her new partner, both personally and professionally… but he was so very young. Could he really only be four years younger than her? The thought was staggering. Then again, so was the thought that he was the same Phoenix she'd had to defend three years before, and that this was comparative maturity.

"Fey & Co. Law Offices, this is Mia Fey," she said crisply, proud of the tone she could take introducing her very own office. It wasn't new, having her own place to call work, but most of the time she answered the phone panic-stricken, or at least juggling several case files. It took effort and good timing to manage a professional-sounding greeting like this one.

The words on the other end of the line took her breath away, like a punch to the stomach. "Mia… Mia, this is Lana Skye." There was a pause, and Mia couldn't force herself to draw a breath. "You remember me, right? I'm sorry to call you like this but… I've found something out that I think you should know."

Lana Skye. Mia hadn't thought of the woman in years: they'd only known one another for a few months, before either of them had undergone that last hellacious testing period before Lana's graduation. But she'd seen Lana now and again, sometimes at trials, sometimes with her sister around town. Mia's heart had ached whenever she saw the two of them, and now Lana's voice recalled that jealousy: that she could raise her own sister, and stay with her all the time.

Lana hadn't said anything else: yet the silence on the other end sounded frightened, almost ominous. Mia finally managed to swallow, and said, feeling as if she sounded too cool, "Yes, Detective. Hello. Though I suppose it's Prosecutor Skye now, isn't it? What is it you think I should know?"

"I can't tell you over a phone line," said Lana. Mia remembered the smiling, confident young woman with whom she'd discussed intellectual property law, and somehow couldn't reconcile that image with this soft, almost shaking voice. "Could you meet me at the entrance to the Park Avenue subway station in fifteen minutes?"

_This is ridiculous_, was the first thought that ran through Mia's head. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was almost four-thirty: she would be leaving for the pre-trial meeting soon anyway. But what could Lana have found out, that involved Mia closely and couldn't be discussed over a phone line? Certainly nothing involving Dahlia's stay of appeal—that had been more than resolved.

Suddenly she felt a chill. Could it be… "All right," she found herself saying. "I'll be there, Lana." She could be at the Park Avenue station in seven minutes, if she walked quickly.

A sigh of relief was all that replied for a moment, then, "Good. See you," a click, and a dial tone.

Mia replaced the receiver and sat staring at her desk contemplatively for a moment. Then she rose, taking her coat from the back of a chair, and strode towards the office exit, feeling more determined than ever. It _had_ to be.

"Phoenix, if I'm not back in an hour, just pack up the case file and leave the forensic documents out for me, will you?" she said as she passed the front room desk. "I'll see you for dinner tonight."

"Sure thing," said Phoenix cheerfully. She had to repress a smile at the highlighter he'd managed to get on the end of his nose, and sailed out.

* * *

Lana wasn't there yet; Mia hugged her coat closer and cursed whatever weather gods had seen fit to send a muggy, half-rainy day upon the city. The humidity and occasional splatters of rain were so miserable that she almost felt cold. Looking around, she saw no sign of Lana, just other passengers going down into the tube station, the occasional older woman with a rolling cart of groceries, and a police car slowly cruising the street.

It had to be about her mother. Mia couldn't think of any other reason why Lana would have contacted her so abruptly—and why she would have sounded so nervous over the phone. Perhaps Misty had been found by the prosecution offices…

Mia's heart leapt at the thought, and her imagination ran wild for a moment. Misty could be hiding out, staying safe from Redd White and the like, but waiting… just waiting to be found by Mia, and maybe Maya could finally see her again…

"Mia!" The shout came from far enough away that she didn't even register it at first. But finally recognizing Lana's voice, Mia looked up to see her old classmate pull up to the curb in a rather nondescript car. Lana didn't say anything else, just leaned over and popped the door open for her.

Mia slid inside, feeling rather awkward; she usually relied on public transportation, and while she did have a driver's license, each time she got into someone else's car it was just another reminder of the fact that she now owned her own law firm. It was about time she bought a vehicle of some kind.

Lana drove in silence for a few moments, looking behind her and in the rearview mirror; Mia would have laughed at the seeming absurdity of her friend's paranoid backward glances, but something about Lana's expression…

Finally, the other woman spoke. "Sorry about that. If you could do me a favor and promise me right now you'll never breathe a word of anything that goes on this afternoon… it would really put me at ease, Mia."

"All right," Mia said, suddenly feeling uneasy. What an awful outfit! Lana was wearing some ungodly combination of an altered brown police suit and a red scarf, and faintly, just for a moment, Mia was reminded of an SS officer. She shook her head to clear the awkward image, and said hastily, "I won't tell anyone. Just please tell me what this is about. Is it… is it about my mother?"

Lana shot her a sharp glance; Mia remembered getting that one from across the room, during particularly heated debates. "No. No, it's not about your mother—though I will tell you, also completely off the record, that your mother is of high interest to the prosecution offices."

The way Lana had said "interest" made a little shiver go down Mia's spine: as if her mother had committed a crime. "I see. Then… is it about…about a certain someone's… stay of execution appeal?" A completely different sensation ran through her, and this time it was heat. She hadn't felt such a brief and powerful surge of anger for a long time, and quelled it immediately. "I thought that was set in stone."

But Lana was already shaking her head again, eyes on the road in front of them. They were quickly picking up speed as Lana turned onto the expressway and started heading out of town, Mia noted. "No. It is. The appeal will take another month or two to be denied, but it's for sure. Little Miss Killer hasn't long for this world. A few years, at most."

Mia felt her cheeks flushed, and was utterly ashamed of the victorious surge of vengeance rushing through her; she bit her lip, hoping Lana didn't look over. _Finally_.

Then she realized what her old classmate had said, and flushed again, feeling touched. "You…"

"I used to be close friends with Valerie Hawthorne, back before her death. What I'm about to say…" Lana began, and hesitated. After a long pause, she began again, voice wavering between doubt (or was it fear?) and the urge to share. "No. Let me just start with this. It's been a long time since I saw you in court, Mia, so we haven't had much opportunity to talk. Chief Gant keeps me pretty busy. But I did face off against one of your old co-workers, Mr. Hammond."

Mia wasn't sure where this was going, but it couldn't be good; Hammond's name hit her in the pit of the stomach, like a physical hurt. Lana looked over and smiled, ever so lightly. "Don't worry. We didn't say much to one another, beyond comments about the current political atmosphere. He did mention, though, that your old boss Grossberg… well, let's just say his office isn't doing too well."

Mia half-opened her mouth to interrupt, but Lana plowed on, presumably aware that she'd been about to say something and unwilling to be interrupted. "In the end he mentioned something of you, that he wished you were still around: and another one of your co-workers, someone who died not long ago."

The air in the car suddenly felt heavy, like a muffling fog had crept over the two of them. Lana swallowed, looking abysmally unhappy. "I have to be unhelpfully vague again, Mia." Mia nodded, and her old friend went on. "It goes like this. This girl, someone we both know… let's call her Martha, shall we? She killed someone and framed a friend for the crime… he ended up taking his own life to cover for her. The pair of attorneys who'd defended him investigated his death a little too thoroughly, and one of them was poisoned and killed by our Martha. She convinced yet another man—no, please, let me finish—she convinced this boy to help her hide the poison… and when it became apparent that his stupidity might reveal her, she tried to kill him too. But she ended up murdering someone else."

Despite the chill going down her back, Mia was struck with a morbid urge to giggle. She pressed her fingers to her mouth to stem off the sound—not many people realized exactly who her newest law partner was, and she suspected that Phoenix liked it that way.

Balancing that was a dread in the pit of her stomach: this clearly had nothing to do with her mother. And nothing connected with Dahlia could be good.

"Anyway, Martha eventually got caught. She's on Death Row now, but it's suspected that she might have contacts in the outside world…one or more people she relied on during her reign of terror." Lana paused for a moment, and, taking a hesitant breath, abruptly asked, 'Can you guess at why she was never charged with homicide for that lawyer she killed?"

Mia shook her head. Her lips felt numb as she spoke. "Besides the obvious wisecracks about lawyers… which, to be fair, weren't made… it was just too late. By the time there was any evidence she'd done it, she'd already been arrested for Doug's… for the fourth victim's murder." _No one would have pressed charges for it except me and Mr. Grossberg, anyway_, Mia thought bitterly.

Lana was silent for a moment, face controlled and blank as she stared out at the road. Mia wondered how much further they had to go, and if she'd really have any time to talk over the case with Phoenix tonight. Finally, she said, "Lana… why did you ask me about… Martha? Or rather, why did you tell me about her, then ask about one of her victims?"

The brief, viscerally unpleasant shudder she felt was suddenly replaced by something much stronger as it came to her, a gut-wrenching and utterly sickening realization. Before it could even fully form, she stuffed it back down, hoping against hope that it could be true yet forcing herself to realize it couldn't possibly be that…

Lana was half-smiling, the expression painful, and she seemed unable to look at Mia as she spoke. "Let's just say… I heard from one person the identity of someone in our witness-protection program… and connected that name with someone Robert Hammond mentioned to me."

Mia felt her heart speed up as Lana braked, slowing the car and guiding it to an exit. "Oh, my God," she heard herself say distantly. Lana made no reply as they drove a short distance through a wooded area.

At last, she spoke again. "You didn't hear _any_ of this from me." Her voice was firm and her eyes cool once more, glancing over at Mia. "Any assumptions you've made about what I _haven't _said today were pure speculation on your part, since we didn't see one another at all today. You have never seen this facility—" Mia could only assume she was referring to the dun-colored building to which they were pulling up "—and you certainly never, ever, ever used my old badge to get inside."

Lana yanked up the parking brake just a bit too sharply as they cruised into a parking space, throwing both of them against their seat belts. Mia could only gape as the other woman pulled out her badge and stared at it for a moment before offering it.

"… Lana," Mia said weakly, feeling totally incapable of adequate thanks. This was all so sudden. Coming on the heels of her own assumption about Lana's intentions, and that this had been about her mother, she felt horribly frightened, both at what she was about to do and at what she might find.

Lana wiggled the badge. "Please. Take it before I lose my nerve. It's not even a real badge anymore, Chief Gant just forgot to repossess it. But I…" She took a deep breath. "Mia, I knew as well as anyone else in the precinct what the two of you were trying to do. And even though back then I didn't know what… I didn't know how much you meant to one another…."

The phrase was put so delicately that at first Mia didn't even understand what Lana meant: she felt as if she were barely breathing, but when she realized, it took her breath away further. "… Even if I didn't know that back then… I was still so angry." Her voice was shaking, whether from anger or from simple emotion, Mia couldn't tell. "And I feel like you deserve this, for your efforts, because neither I nor anyone else will ever be able to give you more."

She swallowed, jaw tightening. "It's going to be a terrible shock for you, Mia, and I'm so sorry I can't… that I'm not able to… I can't make this better. All I ask in return is that you don't give me away."

Mia thought briefly of Valerie Hawthorne, but stayed silent, taking the badge with one hand and gripping her friend's with the other. "Thank you… thank you so much, Lana. If I can ever repay you—" There were suddenly so many words, but Lana was shaking her head, pulling away, not letting her say them.

"I'm going to drive away for thirty minutes—that's all I can give you." Lana put both hands on the steering wheel, glanced at her once, then looked away. "Go in, invent a story, find the room… meet me back here."

Mia nodded dumbly, getting out of the car. She watched as Lana backed out of the space and drove away—a little quickly for a police officer, but hey, it wasn't a patrol car. She looked down at the badge in her hand, took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. Then she walked into the clinic.

* * *

The woman at the front desk may have been a nurse at some point, but it had probably been a while. The scrubs looked far too immaculate. She peered at Mia's badge, looked up to scrutinize her face, then nodded. "What can I do for you, Detective Skye?"

The knot in Mia's stomach unclenched a tiny bit; she'd never really paid attention to how much she and Lana looked alike, but the badge photo was bad enough that they clearly could pass for one another. She said, feeling as if the answer were too honest, "I'm here to check on a patient's status. He's under police custody, for protective reasons, and I'm here to make sure his condition hasn't altered in any suspicious manner."

That part had been free-form inventing, and Mia was only half-relieved to find that she could still do it. The nurse nodded again. "Name?"

Half a second from automatically saying her own name, Mia felt her vocal cords freeze entirely as she realized what was meant. Defense attorneys were always being asked for references, since they were generally untrustworthy scum, second only to journalists when it came to finagling their way into places they didn't belong. But a police officer only had to give the name they were looking for. _Don't think about it, Mia… just blurt it out_. She cleared her throat. "Diego Armando."

There was more than enough time for that to rattle around in the empty waiting room, while the nurse's rather long fingernails clicked on the computer keys. It almost seemed like a bad dream: then a sigh. "Well, yes… but my file says you're not the detective assigned to this custody case."

_Shit_. It took only a second for Mia to figure out what she had to say. The lies were coming more easily now. "No, that would be my co-investigator, Detective Dick Gumshoe. He's been assigned to a different case, for the High Prosecutor's office." She realized with a shock that both were actually true, though applied slightly out of context. Gumshoe had technically been assigned as detective investigator on all Dahlia's cases, and was working almost exclusively with Mia's old nemesis Edgeworth now. "If you'd like to call him and make sure, I can wait." Since if she _did_ call Gumshoe, Mia would be out of the building in a flash.

But the woman was shaking her head. "No, that's all right. Just wanted to make sure you were working with him, that's all. Go on down the hallway to the elevators: second floor, room 235, in the green wing."

'Thank you, ma'am," Mia said, gripping the badge hard enough to feel the metal pressing through its leather holster, and walked through the swinging doors. As she got into the elevators and ascended to the second floor, she could practically count her heartbeats, so strongly was the blood pounding in her ears. It kept time to her footsteps as she walked down the hallway. _No matter how bad it gets, no matter how awful I feel, I have to keep my cool_, she thought desperately, and though of Maya. That calmed her down a little bit, and when she found herself in front of the door, she felt almost trancelike.

Her first thought was that she'd gotten the wrong room, was that she should just backpedal and check the numbers. But it was only a moment's second glance for her to recognize him once more; the casual languor of his hands was unmistakable, even in what was clearly unconsciousness.

Something in the back of her mind was screaming and weeping, but outwardly she felt quite calm. Curiosity overcame her with the urge to know if it was really the poison that had caused his hair to turn white and to make him so thin, or if it had been simple defeat. A clock on the wall caught her eye; she only had fifteen minutes left.

She wasn't sure what to do now; the nurses on the floor had tacitly ignored her, and were bustling on behind the glass. Lana's sudden appearance and this whole shocking, half-illusory surprise had caught her so off-guard… she'd never even bothered to entertain dreams of what she'd say if she ever saw Diego again. Seeing someone dead did that to one, she reflected half-heartedly. This whole thing was like a terrible soap opera.

Well, to hell with it. She sat down at the bedside, putting a hand on one of his, hoping the nurses kept going about their busy little lives. She could weep later: for now, she would commit every single moment of this to memory, to keep safe inside herself, just in case she was never able to share those moments with anyone. "I know you hear me," she said softly, surprised to find how even and calm she sounded. "Sorry I can't get more intimate, but…I'm doing a favor to Lana by not freaking out in the first place."

She cleared her throat, concentrating for a moment on his mouth, unsmiling. It looked so strange, to see him with five o'clock shadow, which she knew would be a luxuriant growth within two days. Only on extraordinarily stressful cases had she ever seen him drop that vanity. "I can't stay long. Lana kind of dropped it on me that you weren't, you know, dead…and it caught me off guard. Didn't prepare any statements." That was dumb, but too late; she almost felt herself smile, but caught it at the last moment. If she started smiling, she'd start crying, too. "Sorry, that was dumb. All I wanted to say was that…"

She swallowed, wanting to thread herself into his arms, and the words flowed out suddenly, bursting with quiet satisfaction. "My God, we did it after all. She panicked after ruining your good coffee, and made the stupid mistake of trusting her precious necklace to some boy. I got her… I ruined her. She's going to die, that—" Mia stopped, feeling the tears prick, and took a deep breath, wondering if she were actually talking to Diego, this silent, blindfolded figure before her, or merely to herself. "Well, anyway. It's almost over, and I'll be sure to cry for you when it is."

Unable to stop herself, she reached out and touched his face; to her surprise, he moved his head, brushing his cheek against her hand. Maybe it was the way she'd touched him, or perhaps it was her perfume: "Mia," he said, almost too quiet to hear: but there could be no mistake that he'd spoken.

She could see her fingers shaking. She looked up at the EEG: she was no nurse, but she knew what those lines meant. He was still asleep. "I love you," she whispered, feeling stupid, and leaned forward to brush his lips with hers. "Hold on, please. I'm not afraid."

Mia remembered getting up blindly, almost scrambling, staring for one last moment before closing her eyes to compose herself. One last breath, and she turned to leave the room. _Don't look back, Mia. If you can't ever return, fine, you'll remember it all. If you can… well, let's pray for that, shall we_?

* * *

It was the receptionist nurse who finally broke her reverie; Mia turned back, to see the woman beckoning, and was startled to find that she'd come all the way from the second floor without seeing a thing. "Detective! Detective Skye! Can I ask you a question?"

Mia approached the woman; her heart was still this time, and she couldn't have cared less about blowing her cover at this point. "Yes, ma'am?"

The nurse looked nervous for a moment, and actually glanced from side to side, as if to check for listeners. Mia stared at her solemnly; every time she blinked, she could see Diego's face, so terribly changed. "Well… I just wanted to ask a question. Have you… have you ever worked with Prosecutor von Karma?"

The question was so unexpected that Mia almost laughed out loud; then she realized how inappropriate of a response that would be, and managed to summon a moue. "Thankfully, no, ma'am, I have not. His expertise is on call specifically for high-profile cases… those requiring a certain amount of discipline, which I'm not sure I possess." More like she wasn't herself _possessed_. Mia had seen the man exactly once, and had vowed that she would rather pay another attorney to take a case rather than face him in court. Only an idiot would submit themselves to that horror.

"Oh," said the nurse, who had visibly relaxed. "All right. I was… just curious."

"Good day, ma'am. And thank you again," Mia said in her best Lana tones, and turned to leave. This time she made it through the first door, the breezeway, and the automatic sliding glass doors completely unmolested; she was at least five minutes still too early for the real ex-detective Skye to be arriving.

Unable to control herself, Mia sank to the curb, her knees giving way. She could maintain her calm for another five minutes, right?

She hugged herself and stared out at the wooded area across from the clinic, unable to think of anything at all. It was all blank until Lana's car pulled up once more, and she climbed in.

Neither of them spoke a single word until Mia was just stepping out of the car. She turned around, feeling her movements jerk uncoordinatedly, and said, "Thank you. Oh, Lana. I swear this… well, it never happened, right?"

Lana's answering smile was pained, but grateful. "Yes. So long, Mia."

"I'll never forget that it never happened," Mia said, and half-laughed in a little sobbing noise. Lana reached out to briefly squeeze her hand.

And that was that: Mia stood on the curb for a moment, hugging her coat tightly again, watching the nondescript car drive away. Lana had dropped her off outside the courthouse, for the pre-trial meeting. As she mounted the steps, every single step she'd taken in tandem with Diego rang in her ears. This afternoon would change her whole life.

* * *

Might as well go in

, she thought as she strode down the hallway to her office. The pre-trial briefing had flashed by, no one commenting on her unusual quietness. The case itself was going to be boring, anyway. She was much more concerned about Brody's trial.

Phoenix was undoubtedly gone by now, and she could just imagine the whirlwind stack of papers he'd left behind. His strong suit was definitely not organization, she thought as she mounted the inner staircase. Maybe she should have Maya help with that after they all went to dinner...

The thought of Maya suddenly jolted her out of the cold reverie she'd maintained since leaving the clinic, and as Mia took out her key to get into the apartment, her fingers shook so violently that she dropped them onto the carpet. "Oh, my God," she said to herself softly, and as her knees hit the floor, her tears suddenly thrashed out, falling down her face in a torrent she'd never imagined possible.

It was horrible. Inescapable. Every single second of those short fifteen minutes would live inside her forever, every photon of light that passed through her eyes captured immortally. Whether he lived or died, his face would always be the last thing she saw before closing her eyes.

Finally she managed to get a grip on herself, and stood up again. At least Maya was coming soon, Mia thought with relief, fumbling once more with the keys, finally getting the office door unlocked. Her sister's implacable energy could always be counted upon to improve any situation.

She felt even more cheered by the idea that Maya was finally going to meet Phoenix. Mia shucked off her coat, tossing it onto her partner's desk recklessly. It knocked over a stack of papers, and immediately the desk looked cleaner. Mia could only imagine that the two of them would get along swimmingly: that would be the best kind of distraction, to go out for pizza (or knowing Maya, burgers) with two of the highest-energy friends she had.

She stepped into her office, and with a hand on the light switch glanced at the clock on the wall: startled, she saw its glowing hands read almost quarter to nine. The pretrial meeting had been much longer than she'd expected.

"Hello, Miss Fey," a voice suddenly said from behind her.

Mia whirled, clutching at her desk. "No," she said faintly as the silhouette resolved itself, coming forward.

"I'll take what's mine now, Miss Fey," he said, approaching ever so slowly.

Mia backed away, along the edge of the desk. She couldn't believe it: after all this time, he'd _come into her office_ to get the statue. Why, oh why, had she walked in so stupidly? Only five more minutes, she thought desperately, and then Phoenix would come. She groped on the desk, but to no avail: her letter opener was probably somewhere in the drawers, and there was no other weapon.

Well, this was it. She stood taller, and said, "I'm sorry, but I can't give you what I don't have."

He chuckled. "Miss Fey, you are a poor liar. Why, I see it right over there." He pointed to the statue, sitting on top of the file cabinet, and her heart sank. "It must be The Thinker that swallowed those papers."

Damn! He'd called her bluff. Mia swallowed. "How could you know…?"

"Ho hoh. You are not cogniferous of my background? I am a gatherer of information, after all."

He picked up the statue, coming back towards her once more. She realized he must have either tapped her phone or placed a surveillance camera pointing through her window. How _stupid_ she was! "I… I should have been more careful." She edged along the window, trying to find the latch. It was only a two-story drop… maybe she could jump…

He shook his head, watching her pitiful attempts. "My dear Miss Fey… I am so very sorry. But I am afraid I must ask you for one more thing."

He paused ominously, and she wished, prayed, hoped that someone would come in: even Maya could use the phone and call the police. "Your eternal silence." he finally said, triumphantly. She would have been tempted to groan if not for the terror.

The man lunged at her so suddenly that she almost tripped trying to get away. She dodged back around her desk, knocking into the brand-new lamp stand. It crashed to the floor.

But he was too quick, and with a strong hand he threw her against the window. Dazed, she hardly felt it when the statue crashed to the back of her head.

Falling back against the window, she slumped down, feeling her hands go numb. In front of her, the man laughed maniacally: she tried to speak, and failed. The pain throbbed.

Darkness overtook her as Redd White knelt down next to her and took her hand.

* * *

She opened her eyes one last time, struggling to draw breath. Someone was shaking her arm, calling her name: it could only be Maya, whose panic-stricken face loomed in hers.

"_Mia!_" her little sister sobbed, hands fisted.

Mia tried to raise her head to speak or say anything, but she was too weak. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many memories she still had to share.

Today's revelation! My God, he would wake up alone, knowing the truth of her death, knowing that she'd been so stupid… She suddenly and irrationally thought of their last trip together, to Hazakura Temple, their breath frosting white amongst the trees, so fragile and so temporary.

A door somewhere in the office slammed. There was a pause, then a voice called out, "Mia!" It was Phoenix.

She felt the darkness swelling up again, irresistibly grey and inescapable this time. But now it was all right. She closed her eyes, feeling a drifting sensation. All the pain was gone.

As both voices melted together, horrified and panicked, Mia knew it would be all right. Phoenix would protect her sister now: he would figure it all out. _Diego_, she thought, _hold on. _She drew one last breath before life and rapture ended, before the dreams faded into black.


	11. Whisper

As my friend the Princess Prosecutor says, "Oh God. Not your boyfriend again."

Here it is, the last chapter of "Fallen"…and the only way to go out is with Godot. I kind of want to cry, now that this self-challenge is over. But I hope you guys have enjoyed my ridiculousness. :3

* * *

~~ 11.11 Whisper ~~

* * *

He'd gone through withdrawal symptoms before, but nothing like this. The hangover-like pounding headache of denial had been infinitely exacerbated by the horrors of two nights ago. Toward the wee hours of dawn yesterday, the one thought that kept pre-empting all the others was _You should have rationed your coffee better_.

The secondary thought, one he barely gave any credence, was just how much he wanted to leap straight off the gorge onto the rocks below. Clasping his arms around himself, he tried to control the furious shivering.

The pounding headache intensified as he stood up: the sun was well above the horizon now. It had to be at least eight o'clock, and he could hear vague shouting from across the gorge. Men's voices: that meant it was no one from Hazakura. There would be others coming soon. The pain finally faded back to one dull, monotonously excruciating throb, and he cautiously stepped out of the storage shed.

He'd thought the first night had been long: for almost the first time since awakening, he'd actually fallen deeply asleep. Since that day, waking without Mia there, he'd refused to sleep, half maintaining it with caffeine and half through sheer stubbornness. But he'd run out of coffee for literally the first time in a year… to be honest, probably the first time ever. Waking up had been even worse than a hangover, since the pain hadn't gone away yet. Besides that, he didn't even want to start reliving the nightmares he'd seen in the darkness.

Last night had been even longer. Too exhausted to function, yet in too much pain to sleep, he'd lay in a sort of half-stupor, visions of Misty Fey's dying face before him, the truth of what he'd done driving him halfway to madness. He'd kept one of the garden torches burning all night, occasionally getting up to pace back and forth to keep away the dark visions. It had kept away the cold, too. He found himself pacing now, to drive away the constant shivering—why, oh why, hadn't he thought to bring a coat?

A memory had kept recurring to him: one from over a year ago, when he'd first woken up in the clinic. Weak as a kitten and unable to see a thing, he'd had to ask the nurse to dial for him.

"_Grossberg Law Offices."_ To his surprise, it had been Marvin himself answering.

"_Mia Fey. I need to speak to Mia Fey."_

There had been a pause, a familiar clearing of the throat. _"Er… who, may I ask, is calling?"_

"_It doesn't matter. Mia. Fey. You know her. Brown eyes, long hair, beautiful."_

"_Well, yes…"_ There had been such a long pause that he'd wanted to scream into the phone. He wondered if Grossberg had recognized his voice. Doubtful.

Then finally, "_Ahem. Well, you see… Miss Fey is no longer with us."_

Good, she'd gotten her own firm. The words Give Me Her Number were on the tip of his tongue, but Grossberg continued, with almost no pause whatsoever. "_That is to say, she passed away more than a year ago."_

It wasn't really the conversation that struck him, so much as what happened afterwards. He'd been incoherent, and didn't have many clear memories, besides the nurses freaking out as he wept.

"_My God, what—what—are those tears?" _

"_I don't know! Bring more gauze!" _

"_Sir, please lie down!"_

But he did have one clear memory of that time, and it was of asking the doctor a question. The man, invisible, had said nothing for a moment.

Then his hand had been grasped abruptly. "Sir, this clinic is used almost specifically for police victims and victims placed in a witness-protection program. If anyone came to visit, it was a detective assigned to your case. As of right now your identity is a mystery even to me."

The implications of that had not been lost on him. Mia had been killed without ever having learning he wasn't dead.

* * *

He reached up to touch his face now: the blood was still sticky under his mask. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to forget.

Godot knew that somewhere nearby was the dressing room the acolytes used before meditation: there was also a tiny kitchen—it was more the size of a broom cupboard—stocked with a small amount of food. But every time he thought it might be prudent to consume something, if just to stay functional… his stomach wrenched again.

Hopefully Maya would eventually make use of that little kitchen, but he was quite certain he wouldn't be able to keep anything down. But now, if he were finally leaving this godforsaken island, he should probably just finish off that last cup of coffee he'd managed to ration, despite himself.

Godot stepped back into the storage shed briefly, picking up the thermos, an odd sensation coursing through him: it felt almost like reverence for the dinky little thing. It probably was reverence, he thought, half-amused. With this fierce of a headache, his brain was muzzily assigning gratitude and adoration to a thermos. Granted, it had gotten him through some rough spots in the last year, supplying the dark nectar of energy when he needed it most.

Stepping outside for the final time, he unsuccessfully tried to spot whoever was talking on the other side of the destroyed bridge, but to no avail. Well, they'd be over soon enough. Hopefully it would be no one brighter than the local police force, no one who would recognize that he'd been here all night. They'd probably almost finished with the bridge, and someone would certainly be over soon.

Iris had called his cell phone yesterday from the prison—the securest line she could manage—and he'd gleaned between her tears that his own disappearance had gone unnoticed, that everyone had merely chalked it up to someone having to stand in for Wright, who was mysteriously sick. It was a reasonable assumption: his public proclamation of avenging himself on Phoenix Wright was pretty much universally known. But to hear poor Iris sobbing for that sap…

Unscrewing the lid of the thermos—a little more roughly than he'd meant—he took a moment to breathe in the half-warm scent of Blend 102, the best he'd ever mixed. Just as he was about to pour the very last of his not-very-carefully hoarded liquid gold into the cap, he looked up, across the gorge, and saw who was coming.

It was a group of city police officers. Even his poor sight could pick out their uniforms, silver badges shining in the cold morning sunlight. But they weren't the problem. Leading them was that awful detective, the prosecution's lapdog. Godot couldn't remember the man's name, but even his distinctive voice carried across the gorge.

Worse yet, there was another with them. Edgeworth. It had been years since he'd seen the man, but Godot knew him. The distinctive color of his suit would have been impossible to pick out, even if Edgeworth hadn't been wearing a coat, but the white cravat made it obvious: so, too, did the fact that the detective—Gumshoe, that was it—followed his every move, practically salivating to do his job correctly. A woman was following them around, tiny, but clearly as in charge of the detective as Edgeworth.

And then, following them, a familiar spiky-haired figure, wrapped in layers of clothing. As Wright bent over, inaudibly coughing and sneezing, Godot felt a spike of hatred run through his chest, matched by a throb of pain so bad it almost blinded him for a moment.

Instinctively he capped the thermos, setting it down at his feet. Well… this was the end.

Edgeworth might not remember him. The detective—Gumshoe, that was it—was just dumb enough to assume he'd vanished because Wright wasn't across the courtroom. But Wright himself couldn't possibly be stupid enough… could he? For him to suddenly appear on this side of the gorge… no.

Despair washed over him, and he stepped up onto one of the broken line anchors, looking down. It was a vertigo-inducing height, much more than the forty feet he'd initially assumed.

For just a moment—just a split second, though one that seemed to last forever—he thought about jumping. It would be so easy: it would solve so many problems. Just to fall… to feel the rock catch him…to see Mia again… Death was always haunting his steps, but right now it was practically lying at his feet.

He reached into his pocket: it was still there, the edges of its tiny cut-crystal bottle still sharp enough to dig into his fingers. The necklace.

Godot didn't know how Mia had gotten the pendant back from that dope Wright—according to the court transcript, the stupid kid had _eaten_ it—but he'd found it re-filed into court evidence, along with everything else from Terry Fawles' case. Only there had been an extra tag on the bag: one with his own name on it. There was no poison left in it, of course, but he still felt a morbid shudder at the thought of his own fate having been locked into this cutesy piece of jewelry.

He held it up to the light now, a beam of weak sunshine playing through it like a prism. He thought of Fawles, hiding the necklace here at Hazakura. Another fallen angel, someone else to beckon him across to the other side. There were lines of them, he thought bitterly: Mia, Fawles, Valerie Hawthorne…and anyone else Dahlia had ever killed. He remembered a line from a prayer he'd learned as a child: _Protect us from harm… protect us from evil._

With a great surge of grief, he pulled his arm back and threw the necklace into the gorge, feeling his stomach follow it as it plunged into the rushing waters of Eagle River. He leaned forward, wondering if, with a running start, he could get far enough to make it into the river, and what the flight would feel like.

Then he froze.

At first it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up: an eerie wail, it sounded like a high voice singing. Reflexively, in a movement so unconscious it was almost genetic, he crossed himself. But he immediately realized what he heard. It was someone sobbing, a high-pitched voice, carried on the wind.

Immediately he felt idiotic. Any ridiculous thoughts of suicide—and the coffee—would just have to wait. So would his worries about Edgeworth, Wright, and the detectives. There was no point in trying to hide. Maya had awoken and found out what he'd done. He'd cleaned up the garden as well as possible, but for her to find the bridge burned down and herself alone… should he try and comfort her?

Godot picked up the thermos again—at least he had enough wits left to keep from kicking the damn thing over the cliff, he noted vaguely—and slunk to the garden, trying to stay unnoticed. There was no one there, of course: the voice had come from either the acolytes' dressing room or the Inner Temple, but he'd had to make sure.

There was no subtle way to enter the dressing room, but it didn't matter: no one was inside. To his astonishment, there was a pot of water on the stove, and the scent of ramen noodles was clear in the air. Maya had obviously been in and had eaten.

Wincing, he moved toward the Temple. Maya must have seen him behind Dahlia, though, and had to have known that he'd carried her into the Inner Temple. If he came in and she saw him... oh well. The pain stabbed just once as he pulled open the temple's door, almost enough to make him exclaim aloud, and then resumed its general thudding.

To his surprise, there was an acolyte inside the small antechamber: but it wasn't Maya. The girl who looked up at him with huge, red-rimmed eyes and a tear-stained little face was her cousin, Pearl Fey. The recognition—and the realization that went through him, that she'd been over here since the murder too—rendered him quite literally speechless.

She sniffled, hastily drying her tears. Vaguely he noticed that the room smelled strange, that the portrait of Misty Fey was covered by something runny and bloblike.

"Are you... you're that p… pros-ah-cute-er," she said unsurely, huge eyes wobbling a bit. "That's what Mr. Nick and M-M-..." And she abruptly burst into tears again, this time turning away to hide her face in her hands as she sobbed, indistinctly wailing, "Mystic Mayaaaa!"

In another situation, he probably would have had absolutely no clue what to do. The daughter of Morgan Fey, sobbing her eyes out about Mia Fey's younger sister. It boggled the senses.

But here, his head throbbing and his brain still reeling from the past forty-eight hours, Godot sat down next to her, put a hand on her thin shoulder. There was nothing much to say to someone who thought her beloved cousin was dead: but then again, as far as he knew, he was probably the only person who could say with any assurance that Maya hadn't died. There was no reason to think she would have, unless she was unreasonably susceptible to the cold.

"Yes, I saw you in court, Miss Fey," he finally said. Her crying was drying up once again, and he added, "Are you all right?"

It might have been a stupid question, but she seemed to understand, and nodded miserably. "Uh-huh. But… but Mystic Maya is locked in the cavern!" The tears threatened to take over again, and she sniffed them back to finish in a tiny voice, "And it's my fault."

Obviously she had Morgan's note on the brain, and thought it was her fault she couldn't channel Dahlia Hawthorne. Godot cursed both women under his breath, the greedy, terrible creatures.

Abruptly, he realized what the little girl had just said, and looked up at the Sacred Cavern. There was a large, strange-looking padlock chained across it, one that had clearly not been there before. Godot stared at it for a moment, completely bemused. How had it gotten there?

It occurred to him just how distressed Pearl Fey must be now: he felt grief tear into his heart. Could Maya really still be all right, locked in that tiny cave? It was freezing in this antechamber; it must surely be below zero in there. He'd assumed she would be out and wandering around by now.

Godot looked back at the little girl. Tears were still rolling down her face, and she too was staring at the giant padlock. He knew nothing, and with a sudden sinking of his stomach, felt that Maya was beyond help.

But this girl wasn't. Well, he might be able to help with that. "Miss Fey, would you come with me?" he asked. She eyed him uneasily for a moment, but the sniffles won over. With a heartbreakingly trusting face, she put a little hand into his and followed him to the kitchen.

* * *

A cup and spoon were easily found; there was even milk in the small icebox. Mentally sighing, knowing that this small amount of coffee wouldn't do him much good anyway, Godot poured the last of Blend 102 into the mug for the little girl, offered it to her. "Don't worry, Miss Fey. The police are on their way." He took a deep, calming breath, the pain having finally faded a bit: a half-truth was sometimes better than brutal honesty. "And your cousin will be fine. She's a very strong young lady."

"I know," the girl said, her thin hands wrapped around the mug. She took a drink and stared down into the coffee, suddenly frowning fiercely, as if willing herself not to worry. Godot was filled with admiration: Morgan Fey could hardly know her own daughter's strength. He prayed that Maya would be all right.

They sat in companionable silence for a short while; finally, Pearl Fey looked up at him, eyes still tear-stained, but now thoughtful. "Why," she asked, "do you hate Mr. Nick?"

The question was so unexpected that Godot actually froze for a moment, halfway through nervously screwing and unscrewing the cap of his thermos. He stared at her. She added, "Is it… is it like Mr. Edgeworth? Did you used to be friends?"

His confused brain thought for a moment, _Were Edgeworth and I friends?_, then realized what she meant. Had Wright and Edgeworth been friends? His headache was coming back again. Coming on the heels of forty-eight very trying hours, and coming from this little girl, this was too much.

Trying to hide the thin layer of disgust that coated his every though about Wright, Godot answered, "Er, no. He… uh… Wright and I have never met except in court."

"Then why?" the little acolyte persisted, taking another timid sip of the coffee.

His mind frantically whirled. Was there any good way to explain this to her? No, of course not… but he certainly wasn't about to tell her a bald-faced lie. Time paused for a minute, as he struggled to frame an answer, and as the girl drained the last of the coffee. This was certainly purgatory;

Some intervening heavenly force must have decided to intervene on his behalf: voices sounded from outside. The muffled sound of a whipcrack sounded from the outdoor garden, followed by a yelp of pain. "Mr. Nick!" Pearl Fey exclaimed, and he just managed to reach out and catch the mug as she leapt up. "That's Mr. Nick! Maybe he brought Mr. Scruffy Detective!" Half-ready to run out the door, she turned back, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet with anxiety. "Um—um… thank you, Proste—Prosec-cute—thank you, sir, for the coffee!" She bowed, then dashed out in a whirl of purple fabric.

Only after she left was he aware of just how many voices there were outside. Rising from the low bench, he stood for a moment and listened: Gumshoe's anxious loud voice, a female shouting (perhaps the owner of the whip?), and two men's voices that blended together, obviously Wright and Edgeworth.

And finally Pearl Fey. He could hear her talking with Wright, yelling at someone, a whipcrack, Wright's voice again… then Pearl began crying. Even from inside, he could hear the name she cried. _Maya_.

Something hardened again in Godot's heart; he knew it was easy to cling to anger, rather than climbing his way back up to forgiveness. As the little girl's voice wailed more faintly, moving away, the hardness increased—"_Here's m__y little cousin Pearl… she's such a sweet thing. Only two, and she already folds paper cranes for Maya and me."_—turning his heart to a hot stone, burning with hatred.

Phoenix Wright. Godot carefully set down the coffee mug, to avoid shattering it in a clenched hand, and stepped toward the door. He briefly turned his face to the sky, calming himself with the hatred: it ran through his veins, holding back the sorrow. This was only going to get worse before it got better, but if he turned his eyes straight to it—focused on the man responsible for all of this—the pain would be bearable.


End file.
